


Breathe In The Air

by elenai_7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Art, Christmas, Domestic, Edited, F/M, Humor, Illustrations, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenai_7/pseuds/elenai_7
Summary: There's snow on the ground, in Draco's hair and in his eyelashes, and it paints everything white.Harry allows himself to drink the view just for a moment.Like this, Draco makes him think about the white mist at King's Cross that embraced him when the green curse hit his heart.Harry felt at peace then and he feels at peace now, because there are no scraps of Voldemort under the bench.No, there is just Draco now, right beside him.Harry doesn't have to decide. He won't take the train to move on, but he doesn't want to go back either.He is content to sit in the middle, where he can love Draco from the quietness of his mind.-The work has been edited by the lovelycmkhunter





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work took much more than I'd anticipated.  
> My biggest concern was the fact that I'm not a native English speaker, but I'm truly delighted to say that my work has not only been apreciated, but has also been revised and edited by the exceptional [cmkhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmkhunter/pseuds/cmkhunter). She's done an outstanding job, making the story flow where I've failed, picking up all the errors, and, foremostly, respecting everything I've written by not changing the phrases and the content.  
> I couldn't be more grateful, C., and I'm sorry that I can't do more than just thank You and tag You here.
> 
> As for the reader, I hope that You'll get carried away by this fanfiction, even if just for a little.

 

"Are you talking to yourself again? Have you finally gone crazy?"

Harry sighs and folds the file.

"If I tell you for the ninety-seventh time that I'm reading out loud, will you stop asking me the same question at least once a week?" he responds and takes his glasses off.  
He presses two fingers to the sides of his nose where the glasses always leave two dark, oval marks.  
He glances up.  
"And I don't think I like the slight tinge of hope in your voice when you accuse me of being crazy," he says, but his irritation is a mere act. Harry is calmer now, compared to his on-edge, seventeen-year-old self. He has long overcome the prejudices that were fundamental to his juvenile perception of morality. Maybe it had something to do with the fact he took the  _avada kedavra_  for them all to live. Or maybe it was all those times he hated himself for living, because they died instead.

"I've always known it was inevitable. And I like being right," Draco responds, shrugging. He has two cups of tea in his hands. He holds one of them out and places it in front of Harry.

Harry never asks Draco to make him tea, but Draco always does.

Harry puts his glasses back on and gives Draco a little smile. The blond man doesn't see it because he's busying himself with finding the right position in that old, hideous armchair that's in front of the fireplace in Harry's living room. Harry cannot understand why Draco likes it the most.  
Harry brought it from Grimmauld Place when Sirius' loss stopped being a gaping hole that took every piece of Harry's chest, bit by bit, until it had taken his heart too. Now there is just an ugly, misshaped scar, not unlike the one Harry has on his forehead. Sometimes, it makes Harry think of Bill’s face.

His heart has come back, though, because otherwise Harry couldn't have surrendered it to Draco.  He owns nothing else worth giving after the war. Not that his friend knows that, obviously. Some things are better left unspoken.

"How was work?" Harry asks, regarding Draco from his own armchair as he picks up the mug.  
He forgot to cast an  _impervius_  on his glasses again. They immediately cloud over with steam. The man in front of him sighs and briefly flicks his wand. The spell is quick enough; it allows Harry to catch the patronizing look on Draco's face just in time.

Harry likes that look, it's the closest to fondness that Draco ever shows in every-day situations.  
Harry knows that because he's spent the last seven years discreetly cataloguing all the small muscle movements that make up Draco's features. He likes it most when Draco smiles, though. It doesn't occur often, not anymore, but it's worth the wait. And then Draco smiles only to a handful of people, and Harry is amongst them.  
He's gotten used to love without being loved back, because to love Draco from behind the thick, grey walls of his mind is a small price to pay for his friendship.

“Utterly and disappointingly uneventful for the past week," Draco responds, leaning back and closing his eyes. He's grown into a fine man, by every standard.  
His slender silhouette is currently stretched in the armchair with his right leg crossed over the left.

He once asked Draco which spell he used to thermally isolate the porcelain of his mug, the blond responding that there was no need for such a spell because his left hand lost its ability to feel the heat.  
Harry never asked when. He knows it was since Draco was sixteen.

"Snape's going too easy on you," Harry responds teasingly.

"He is still furious about the fact that I decided to finally scrape that musty, old paint from his frame. I don't understand how cannot see that the one I've chosen clearly suits him better," Draco says with exasperation. He doesn’t bother opening his eyelids, underlined by deep, shadowy circles as they are. That's for the better; Harry can openly look at him without being met by his questioning eyes. It has only happened once, but it was one time too many. Harry's not going to risk it.

"I think he's angry because he had to spend one week in his other portrait," Harry responds and leans forward.  
"You know, the one in Minerva's office beside Headmistress Dylis and her unusually thick wand." Harry lets a small smile stretch his lips. He heard that Dumbledore asked Minerva to change the position of the painting when Harry wrote her about the renovations of the other portrait. The old man is still a menace.

Harry ignores the clench of nostalgia.

Draco opens one eye and looks at Harry lazily.  
"Nothing goes amiss by the Gryffindor extraordinaire, hm? You've always been McGonagall's favorite," he says as he closes his eyes again, but there's no jealousy in his voice. "You weren't even that good at Transfiguration. Your narrowness of mind has always prevented you from seeing the depths of transmutation." He takes one sip of his tea. Always one at a time, never more. Not even when the tea loses its mouth-burning heat and is at the perfect temperature to be enjoyed fully. Some Pureblood habits die hard.

Harry lightly kicks one of Draco's long shins.  
"Says the one who’s got a deceased Potion Master as a collaborator," he says, smiling when Draco looks at him indignantly and dusts off a non-existent patch of dirt from his black, tailored trousers. "Really, I still can't wrap my little, narrow mind around the fact that you've convinced him to work with you," Harry adds, shaking his head a bit. Draco's dark grey eyes are both fixed on Harry's green ones. The blonde arches his left, sharp brow in a gesture so familiar that Harry's chest feels tight for a moment. "Snape's affinity for teaching and collaborating is comparable to how he felt about shampooing during school days," Harry concludes and a smug smile lightens his face as he avoids Draco's pointy shoe.

"I will not have you disrespect our greatest Professor," Draco says haughtily, but it's Harry's turn to look at him with an arched brow. The corner of Draco’s mouth quirks up, "I guess he could've washed his hair more often".

Harry lets out a full smile.

The flickering light from the remains of wood in the fireplace tint Draco's platinum hair an ember color. He brushes away a strand of hair that has escaped his ponytail with long fingers.

Some people think Draco looks like Lucius. To Harry, he looks breathtakingly like Narcissa.

Harry casts a non-verbal  _wingardium leviosa_  with a twitch of his wand and another log makes its way to the fireplace. Sometimes, the flames remind him of the Fiendfyre and about Crabbe's terror-filled eyes. But when they shine on Draco, they remind him of Christmas at the Burrow. They remind him of home.

Harry unfolds the file again. There have been three cases of smuggled goblin's jewelry, two in London and one in Ilkley. When Hermione took over the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures equal rights were guaranteed to all the belonging species, including lawful protection. The involved Aurors consider the cases as two separate ones as it is common for the black market to be powered by inimitable handiwork. To Harry, some details make them look connected.

Harry gasps as the file is snatched from his hands; it lands graciously on Draco's outstretched palm.  
"No working at home, Potter, we've been through this," he says briefly, his voice bearing no argument.

As if Harry could deny him anything.

He stands up.  
"Have you eaten dinner?" he asks, daring a glance at Draco's frame. He's always been thin, but never skinny. However, Harry knows that the circles under his eyes mean that he's forgotten to eat again.

"Why would I, when I know that you've prepared a portion too big for yourself yet again?" he asks with nonchalance, but he is already leaning forward with anticipation. "Honestly, Potter, one would think you'd have managed to grasp the limits of your almost bottomless stomach by now."

Harry faces the kitchen and smiles to himself. He's been preparing two portions since the one evening when Draco stepped out of his fireplace, his hazy grey eyes looking around for him.  
Harry still remembers the relief he saw in them when Draco found him in the living room. The blond man nodded at him and then simply let himself fall. Harry barely managed to summon some cushions under him before he hit the floor. He had been working on yet another Ministry assignment and hadn’t eaten nor slept in two days. The Ministry has never stopped trying to make him pay for the crimes he committed. Harry despises them.

"I hope that mashed potatoes are good enough for your refined palate," is the only thing he says as he casts a quick, weak  _incendio_  to awake the flame under the pot.

"With ham?" Draco asks with cool voice, but Harry hears the hope lingering in his tone.

Of course he’s added ham.

"And that goat cheese with a strange, French name you brought over when you found out that I only have Cheddar," he says, glancing behind his shoulder. His breath gets caught in his lungs as Draco looks at him with a full smile on his lips.

"I cannot be seen with somebody who willingly chooses to eat such gruesome dairy product." The smile even reaches his eyes.

-

When Draco leaves, Harry dreams about that night in the Forbidden Forest.

__________________•___________________

  
"Merlin, Potter, you look like that time I tried to sell you out to Snakeface. Stop moping or you'll ruin my image, since we must be seen in the same limited space for prolonged amounts of time.”

  
Harry has apparently lost himself in his thoughts again. He lifts his eyes to look at Pansy Parkinson, who is tapping at his desk with her perfectly manicured, black nails in her perfectly tailored, black suit.

He and Pansy have been working together for almost four years now.  
There had been an open position for a consulting expert in Dark Artifacts; it was a part of Harry's division, so they let him pick one of the applicants.  
He chose Pansy simply because she had been at the top of the list, even after Ron looked at him with his big, surprised, blue eyes and Hermione told him she would stop dropping by his office so often. She still comes twice a week, though.

During the last four years, Harry and Pansy's mutual dislike has changed into something resembling respect and then into something resembling friendship, if one's idea of friendship is made of weak insults, long evenings at the Bureau and a shared distaste for any kind of beverage served in their quarters.  
Pansy is sharp, rational, and tired of everyone's bullshit. Others still look at her like she's inferior, but she doesn't care. If she does, she hides it well, and that is a quality Harry can relate to.  
Maybe that's why they get along so well, but he's never given it much thought. Pansy doesn't know about Draco.

"If this is your way of saying _hi_ , Parkinson, then I guess shyness and trust issues are not the real reasons why you're single," he responds, but he doesn't put much effort into sounding mean.  
Pansy doesn't even bat an eye. She just stares at him some more. She does that when she's being purposeful.  
"Ehm," Harry clears his throat pointedly, at a loss for anything to say.

Pansy snorts.  
"So eloquent. I've always wondered how you've managed to be everyone's favorite with such a restricted vocabulary, but I guess it was just your martyr complex."  
She proceeds to look at herself critically in an old, wooden mirror on the opposite side of Harry's desk, touching her short, meticulously cut black hair.

"Do you realize that the mirror isn't here for your vanity?" Harry sighs. "That is a very rare piece of Auror equipment. It shows those who wish you ill and therefore are your enemies." He had gotten that mirror from Kingsley. It had been the fifth anniversary of Alastor's death.

"You're no fun. I don't even know why I spend time with you," she says, turning towards him.  
Before Harry can come up with a proper response, she adds, "and if you say something you think is funny, but it really isn’t, like 'we work together,' then I guess you'll be hearing the scoop from the cleaning staff.”

Harry sighs again.  
He still has hours of work to do and he'll have to skip lunch if he wants to get home in time to cook dinner.  
Draco's physical absence aches like a missing limb. There are only seven more hours to endure.

Harry gathers his thoughts. The sooner he listens to what Pansy has to say, the sooner he'll be able to come back to the Pile of Doom that lays menacingly in the corner of his desk.  
He tries to muster a curious expression.

"You look like something's hurting you. Beside your existence, of course."  
Pansy says and sits on his desk. The Slytherins truly like the dramatics.

"I've heard from a very reliable and legal source..." she starts, but Harry looks at her with disbelief. "It was Blaise," she rolls her eyes, "and stop interrupting me".  
Harry's eyes try to express an ' _I didn't even speak,_ ' but Pansy chooses to ignore him in in favor of revealing the gossip. "Old Fairburn's almost burnt down half of the Department of Mysteries".

Harry tilts his head.

"They say he breathed too much Draught of Madness and convinced himself he was a Salamander. He tried to summon his birth fire to fully become one," she says with a sharp grin.

Harry laughs, taking his glasses off and casting a quick _scourgify_. This is a nice one.

"So that's what they've been doing down there. I wondered why Luna reeked of aconite the last time I saw her."

Aconite flowers are the main ingredients of the Wolfsbane Potion. At some point, people discovered that the leaves, a previously discarded part of the plant, heavily affected human behavior if properly prepared. The Draught of Madness has been the Aurors' nightmare for quite some time. Some call it the ‘Liquid Imperius.’

There's no accurate method to verify whether people's insanity is artificial or not when they commit a crime. Veritaserum is pointless when it comes to memories twisted by madness.  
Crazy people believe they speak the truth, because there's nothing else but their own thoughts to believe in. Those people are usually sent to Saint Mungo's. Harry can't understand why. Azkaban makes you go crazy anyway.

"They could just shove a bezoar down their throats," he murmurs to himself.

Pansy's expression shifts to an undignified one as she speaks with superiority.  
"Just because you saved Weasel that way, oh Big Saviour of the Ginger and Oppressed, it doesn't mean you can use that goat stone on everything."

“That's right, Harry. I don't know how can't you remember that a bezoar is a common antidote for common potions. The Draught of Madness surely doesn't belong to that category."

Harry and Pansy turn as Hermione enters the office, carrying two steaming cups.  
She eyes Harry's desk with exasperation and puts the cups on the only piece of surface not covered by parchments.  
Harry smells Fortescue's coffee.  
He always drinks coffee, except for when Draco brews him tea.

"Where's my coffee?" Pansy says, offended.

"You don't even drink caffeine, and I won't bring you something with high percentage of alcohol during work hours," Hermione replies, tugging a strand of her curly hair behind her ear. Pansy rolls her eyes and says something that sounds like 'that red dress' and 'over my dead body' under her breath.  
Hermione ignores her.  
She takes another look at Harry's desk, sighs and flicks her wand. All the parchments align and start to flow one over another in a strange pattern.

"They're organizing themselves chronologically," she explains, summoning a comfortable looking chair as she starts sipping on her coffee.

"I don't deserve you, Hermione," Harry says, giving her a grateful smile. He's lost count of the times she's saved his life, figuratively and literally.

Hermione gives him an amused look and opens her purse, retrieving an envelope.

"You can start deserving me by agreeing to show your pretty face at this event," she says as she slides the envelope in his direction.  
She knows Harry hates to attend public events, yet it seems that she's evaluated this particular one as important.

He glances hesitantly at the wax seal. It bears the Bones' family crest.

"It's the annual Amelia Bones Charity Dinner," Hermione says, but she must've seen the flick of recognition in Harry's eyes. Ah, the Wizarding World and its always-present acronyms.

Harry nurtures a deep respect for Mrs. Bones. She helped him at his trial, when all the others had turned their backs, and she has continued to fight until the very end. She is a brave woman.  
There are not enough people like her, not after fifteen years when the grief has been numbed and the unity that was pushed so hard is beginning to strain again.

Harry already knows that he will go.

"There have been a lot of sponsors this year, since it's so close to Christmas," she says, her clever, brown eyes sparkling as she looks at Harry. Harry breaks the seal and retrieves the invitation. Under all the usual formalities, a long list of names extends to the end of the parchment. 'Malfoy' figures as the first one. Harry arches an eyebrow as he meets her eyes. Hermione smiles smugly in response. "You know I play dirty, Harry," she murmurs only for the two of them to hear. She's always been too perceptive for Harry's own good.

"I'll be there too, obviously, so you'll be able to bask in my marvelous presence," Pansy adds as if it closes the case.  
Harry smiles a bit. She reminds him of Draco.

__________________•___________________

  
Harry is unpacking the groceries. There are some tasks he likes to perform manually, without magic. He likes to fill the shelves with food by hand. Somehow, it fills the void that was formed inside him when he was kept at Privet Drive, his stomach always empty and his heart always in his throat.  
  
The door to his apartment opens.  
The wards are designed to let in only a small number of people, but he still isn't expecting anyone at this hour.  
Harry glances behind his shoulder, because he's able to see the door from the kitchen. Actually, he's able to see the whole apartment, since he's insisted on a completely open space.

Draco stands in the doorway, looking at him, but not taking off his cloak. Except, he always takes it off. Harry's stomach drops. Maybe Draco has finally seen that Harry's not worth his time, that he'll never be, because he's lost too much too soon.

"The snow has fallen in Saltwick Bay," the blond says, looking at Harry expectantly.

Harry hides his face in the cabinets before it reveals his relief.  
"Just give me a second, I'm almost done," he responds. He closes his eyes and breaths out. Draco is not going to leave him.

It's incredible, really, that for a man who doesn't like the cold, Draco waits for the snow to fall with unspoken anticipation every year.

"Let me firecall Ron and Hermione and we can go," Harry says, exiting the kitchen and going for the fireplace. "Have you told Pansy and Greg?" he asks, reaching for the dark powder. It's been their tradition for eight years, now. Or maybe seven...  
Yes, definitely seven, Harry scolds himself. Seven years ago, on the Night of the First Snow, he realized he loved Draco Malfoy. It's not a thing to forget.

"No," Draco responds. Harry turns around and looks at him, surprised.  
"We'll tell them tomorrow," he says, dismissively. "Now move, or it will melt before we get there."

Draco is not a patient person when it comes to things unrelated to his work.

"Can I at least put my jacket on? Or do you want me to get bronchitis?" Harry asks, rolling his eyes to mask his perplexity.

"I don't know what a bronchitis is, but I'm sure I've got a potion for it somewhere, so stop being difficult and come," Draco responds, tapping his foot impatiently.

Harry looks at him sternly. He is  _not_  the difficult one.

Draco is able to understand his expressive eye language, but there isn't an ounce of self-consciousness on his face, so Harry just puts his jacket on and steps out of his apartment.  
Draco closes the door and takes something out of his breast-pocket.  
"Heads or tails?"

Harry sighs. He always loses.  
"Tails."

Draco throws the galleon and when it touches his gloved hand, he swiftly covers it with the other.  
His grey eyes meet Harry's. In the dark of the corridor, they look like the sky during a thunderstorm. He uncovers the coin and glances down.

"It's tails indeed, Potter," he says with amusement, and Harry's eyes widen.

Harry thinks it's going to be an unusual evening, as he takes Draco by his forearm and spins.

-

He _apparates_ them right beside the shipwreck.  
A thin layer of snow is covering the rocks under their boots and the remains of the ship, crackling under their weight.  
It's late November and it's evening, so it’s just the two of them, and the rocks and the sea.  
Harry shivers, but he doesn't want to cast a warming charm. It numbs the feeling of the snowflakes melting on his skin.  
He breaths in the cold air, even if it makes his throat burn.

The place is the same as it was the first time they set foot on these rocks.

Harry lets himself remember.

That evening, they had had dinner at his place.  
He remembers the heat of the burners, his kitchen full of scents of a dish he can't quite recall. He remembers Draco, Pansy and Greg by the fireplace, gossiping about yet another Pureblood marriage. He remembers the hugs during the dessert, when Hermione announced her pregnancy, Ron proud by her side.  
God, Harry had been so drunk.  
At some point, he firmly decided that he wanted to see, but when the others have asked him ' _to see what?_ ' he hadn't been sure. He said that he wanted to finally look at something different than London, different than Hogsmeade, and different than that god-damned Ministry.  
And maybe Ron and Pansy had been drunk too, because Pansy summoned a map of England and Ron poked it blindly with his wand, leaving a small, burnt circle where Saltwick Bay was.  
That evening, Draco forced Harry to let him _apparate_ them by betting on a coin.  
Harry lost. Or maybe he hadn't, now that he thinks of it, but his mind is too hazy.

It doesn't matter, though, because when they landed, Harry reached out to Draco’s arm for support. What he found had been Draco's face instead, wonder reflected in its every line.  
His cheeks were pink from the cold and gold from the ray of the lighthouse.  
It must've been windy, because Draco's hair escaped the ribbon and got tangled in his long, dark lashes. And then snowflakes hit his face and Draco's smiled.  
His grey eyes looked out for something, or perhaps nothing at the same time.  
And Harry loved him.

"It's beautiful," Draco says, his breath escaping his lips in a white puff.  
' _You're beautiful,_ ' Harry thinks, but he doesn't voice it. It's not important in the greater scheme of things.  
"As always," he responds to Draco and to himself, letting his eyes assess the breathtaking surroundings.  
He looks for a horizon that's not there, because it melted with the edge of the sea when the sun set.

What Harry likes the most, though, is the contrast between the white in the air and the black in the water. The snowflakes spin in the air, carried by the breeze, and their crystalline structures reflect the ray of the lighthouse, making them sparkle.  
Harry can't look enough.

Then, a snowball hits him right on the nose.

"You sucker! What was that for?" he shouts, trying to get the snow off of his glasses.

"That concentrated look on your face was unsettling. I'm not used to seeing you think," Draco says and makes a vague gesture with his hands, but Harry can see that he's holding another snowball.

"Very funny, Malfoy," Harry responds as a mischievous smile stretches his lips. Draco doesn't stand a chance against him and training he received from the Weasley twins. "It's a war," he says, ducking to the left before the second snowball hits him.

"You'll always be my greatest opponent," Draco says, looking him in the eyes. There's something in this statement Harry can't quite put his finger on, but before he can give it more thought, his snowball hits Draco on the back of his head.

"Using magic?" Draco's voice is low with anticipation as he makes the snow vanish before it gets under his coat.  
"You're such a Slytherin," he shakes his head a bit and smirks.  
Harry stands still, waiting for the blonde's next move.

"Well, the Sorting Hat did want to put me there," he says, and when Draco's lips part in disbelief, he seizes the opportunity to summon another snowball. With a Malfoy there is no playing by the rules.

He might've underestimated Draco, because as soon as the blonde sees the snowball with the corner of his eye, he smirks again and spins.

Harry's got less than a second to react, because Draco is behind him, his wand out and a block of snow as big as a car over Harry's head.  
The moment the snow falls, Draco _disapparates_ again and so does Harry.

They reappear at the two opposite sides of the shipwreck.

"You never told me," Draco says, his tone as patronizing as always. Translated from Malfoy to English, it probably means ‘ _I would've liked it if you told m_ _e.’_

"You never asked," Harry responds, smiling, because he loves Draco with every fiber of his body and because a quick, non-verbal  _ventus_  makes the snow from the shipwreck hit Draco in the face.

His victory is short-lived because Draco is suddenly beside him with a loud crack a second later and Harry avoids being tackled by pure luck and his Seeker's reflexes.

Harry is instinctive where Draco is calculating, so the blond man guesses his next apparition positions almost every time, not giving Harry a moment to break.  
Their fight is a spiral of bodies that vanish only to reappear, flashes of light when the spells are used and snow everywhere, laying, rising, and falling.

Before Harry knows it, his cheeks are flushed, his head is spinning and his chest is full of joy.  
Draco misses him with a  _levicorpus_  by millimeters and Harry scoots left, putting up his wand and shouting,  
" _Tarantal_ -" But he never gets to finish, because the foot he lands on stomps on ice and not on rock. ' _That bastard's managed to cast a_ glacius,' Harry thinks as he goes down hard.  
He doesn't get the chance to stand up, because after a blink Draco is kneeling beside him with a hand on Harry's chest and the wand at his throat.

"Guess I've won," he says, smiling fully, and his eyes sparkle.  
His cheeks and his nose are pink and his hair falls gently on his face, the ponytail long unbounded.  
He's breathing hard, but he lets a small chuckle escape his lips as he tries to shake the hair from his eyes in vain.

Harry realizes that Draco's face is close. He can see the variation of grey in his eyes.  
Draco's hand is pressing strongly at the center of his chest and Harry has to move before Draco feels his heart hammering in his chest or before he does something very stupid, like saying ' _I love you._ '  
Putting his feelings in a far corner of his mind with practiced skill, he grips Draco's wrists and spins, using the momentum to make Draco lose his balance. The blond man falls on his side with a quiet thump.

"Constant vigilance, Malfoy," Harry says and smiles, looking at Draco's indignant expression. "Guess it's a draw, after all."

"You wish, four eyes! I'll get you when you'll least expect it," Draco spats, but he can't fight the smile that lightens his face again. He turns to lay on his back and glances at the sky.

There's snow on the ground, in Draco's hair and in his eyelashes, and it paints everything white.  
Harry allows himself to drink the view just for a moment.  
Like this, Draco makes him think about the white mist at King's Cross that embraced him when the green curse hit his heart.  
Harry felt at peace then and he feels at peace now, because there are no scraps of Voldemort under the bench.  
No, there is just Draco now, right beside him.  
Harry doesn't have to decide. He won't take the train to move on, but he doesn't want to go back either.  
He is content to sit in the middle, where he can love Draco from the quietness of his mind.

"Tea?" Draco asks and turns his head to look at Harry.  
Harry nods and, just like that, they go back home.

__________________•___________________

  
That night, Harry dreams.  
He dreams that he's laying down on his stomach, his cheek on a pillow.  
There's a hand entangled in his hair; it presses his head down.  
His own hands are held in a strong grip behind his back and his legs are held down by the weight of another body kneeling on top of him, calves pressing on each side of Harry's thighs.

He's feverish with anticipation. He knows what is going to come.

He shivers as the body leans forward and long hairs tickle the base of his neck.  
He feels a breath ghost across his skin and he pants when a mouth meets his neck, hot and open, pressing a long, wet kiss right below his hairline. A quiet moan escapes his lips.  
He wants to turn around, to capture that sweet mouth with his own lips, but the hand tugs at his hair and prevents Harry's head from turning.  
The pull is even more arousing.

One strong calf aligns with his own as the body half-lays down and Harry can't stop his lower back from arching. He wants to feel naked skin on his own.  
His ass is met by a long, hot hardness. Harry presses back against it harder, moaning again.  
A name escapes his lips as platinum strands fall on his face.  
"Draco."  
Draco's mouth moves from the pulse below Harry's ear; it caresses his earlobe as the blonde murmurs,  
"Shh." They're not to be heard.

Then, Draco starts moving.  
With every thrust, his erection rubs against Harry's crack and its tip touches his immobilized hands. It's already wet.  
Harry bites his lip to stay quiet, but his body moves with Draco's and his own erection slides on the covers.  
Draco is panting.  
His forehead meets Harry's temple as his hand loosens its grip on Harry's hair. Draco places it by Harry's face to support his body as his thrusts deepen.  
The desire to look at Draco and to touch him is so strong Harry's chest hurts.  
His thighs tremble when Draco lifts himself, placing his knees on Harry's sides and interrupting the physical contact.

"Kneel for me," he says quietly, his voice deep with want as he releases Harry's wrists. Harry obeys, because how could he not when Draco asks like this. He lifts himself weekly and bends his legs, making them slide under Draco's. He thinks about turning around to taste Draco's mouth, but the other man commands,  
"Hands on your thighs."  
  
Harry suppresses a groan but does as he’s told.  
  
"Spread your legs," Draco murmurs in his ear and his voice is pure sex. He's close enough for Harry to feel the heat of his body, yet not close enough to touch.  
As soon as Harry is done, Draco sits on his heels and two muscular thighs make their way between Harry's open legs. Draco grips him by the hips and kisses his shoulder-blade.  
  
"Now, lean on me."  
Harry leans. His back is met by Draco's hot chest and his spread bum slides on the length of Draco's hardness. There's lubricant on it.  
Harry falls forwards at the sensation, throwing both his hands on the mattress in support.  
His own erection is pulsing and Harry's afraid he might come even if he's not been touched yet.  
Draco's grip on his hips tightens.  
He rocks his own hips, making his cock slide in the middle of Harry's cheeks again. And again, and again.  
Harry can’t suppress a cry.  
His body is shivering.

"You're so good for me," Draco says, his breath ragged.  
Harry wants to respond, to say something, but he's unable to form a coherent phrase.

Then one of Draco's hands makes its way down and a finger presses at Harry's entrance.  
Harry has dreamt about this moment many times in the past years and he's ready. He's been ready for a long time.

"God,  _finally,_ " he chokes out and he lowers himself on Draco's finger. He wants to beg for another one, but the Dream Draco knows that.

"So good," he breathes out and pushes the second finger in.  
Harry has to wrap a hand around the base of his erection to prevent himself from coming. Not yet. Not when he still has so much to give.  
"So hard, only for me," Draco murmurs, forcing Harry's hips down on his hand.

"Only you," he manages to choke out, because it's important, because there is only Draco, always.  
"Draco," he pants, " _please_ ".  
And Draco fucks him. He fucks him, wrapping a hand around Harry's chest and pulling him up, so they can meet halfway.  
He fucks him as the same hand travels to Harry's throat to keep his neck still, so Draco can kiss it from behind.

Harry spreads his legs wider and takes everything Draco can give him, not bothering to keep quiet anymore.

Draco takes his wrists and places his hands on the wall in front of them, caressing the curve of Harry's back as he fucks him harder.  
Harry tries to bite down the shame that eventually comes. It always does.  
Because no matter how hard he tries to delude himself, no matter how realistic his dreams are, he still can't hide the fact that it's all pathetic. Even in his dreams he's not allowed to look and to touch; they're there to remind him that Draco will never be his.  
And as Harry slides down every time Draco thrusts in, the sweat on his face mixes with tears that he desperately tries to stop from falling.  
He cries out when Draco bites his shoulder, grounding him harder.

His own cry awakens him and the walls of his bedroom shake.  
His chest is flushed, and his erection is painfully hard, and Harry knows where the wetness on his cheeks comes from.  
He squeezes his eyes shut, groaning in frustration as more tears escape his eyelids.

He has let himself believe, again. He's such a fool.

He knows the anxiety that's clawing at his throat too well, so he disentangles himself from the sheets that are wrapped around his torso and lifts himself, trying to calm his breathing.  
When his senses sharpen again, Harry ignores the disgust that makes its way into his mind like a plague and takes himself into his hand.  
He makes himself come in the solitude of his dark room, Draco's name on his lips, while his tears leave dark, circular spots on his grey sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

 

"-ter... Potter!"

Harry jumped in his seat. He must've fallen asleep in his armchair; he didn't get a good night of sleep. It takes him a heartbeat to realize that someone is in his apartment.  
His magic lunges forward even before he grasps his wand and he hears a _protego_ the same moment he realizes his magic has stopped in its tracks. There is a blond figure by the door.

"Harry, it's me," Draco says quietly, but there is no fear in his voice, even if Harry knows how he looks when his magic gets free.  
Harry snaps back to reality and falls into the armchair, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He can’t imagine what he would do if he hurt Draco.

"Stop making that face. It's not your fault that I've barged into your apartment, so there's no need to blame yourself," Draco says and takes his coat off, flicking his wand to hang it beside the door. "Besides, it's not like I'm going to let a Gryffindor wearing pajamas beat me. I've got a reputation to uphold," he adds, eyeing Harry critically and going straight to the kitchen.

Harry would've felt self-conscious if he gave a damn about his physical appearance.

He straightens his crooked glasses, looking at Draco's back as the other man starts making tea.  
A light blush colors his cheeks at the memories of last night, but Harry's too good at hiding his emotions; he's had seven years of practice.  
Draco will never know that Harry dreams about fucking him.

"It's amusing that you think you could stand a chance against me, Malfoy," he says, only because he's annoyed that Draco's startled him.

"I could've taken you down in seven different ways while you were drooling on your hideous sweatshirt," Draco throws over his shoulder, putting tea bags in two cups.

Harry quickly glances down at his shirt, where there is obviously no saliva, so he resolves to stare at Draco. The corner of the man's mouth quirk up.

"You think you're hilarious, don't you?" he asks, but his mouth is quivering as well.

"You laugh at the ' _a leprechaun, a troll and a hag all went into a bar_ ' joke," Draco responds,  
"so I wouldn't expect you to understand my sublime sense of humor," he concludes and takes the mugs from the countertop, turning towards Harry.

Oh, Harry is going to have the last word in this argument. He grins, thanking Merlin that the blush has vanished from his cheeks after Draco's snarky remarks.  
  
"Now that you remind me, I've heard another one," he says with exaggerated cheerfulness.

Draco's glare is impressive.  
"Please, spare me your squalor."

"How many centaurs does it take to light up a single wand?" he asks, smiling wider as Draco sits down and pretends to be deaf. Harry takes that as encouragement - don't they always say to look for positive signals even if there are none?  
"Two. One to say the spell and the other to keep saying how bright the wand is tonight!" He laughs when Draco hides his face in his free hand and groans. He deserved it.

"Drink your tea, we're going out. I can just _feel_ my intelligence dropping because of the idiocy in this room," the blond says after a moment and looks pointedly at Harry's clothes.

"What?" Harry asks with slight exasperation. It's not like nice clothes could make Draco love him back, so Harry doesn't bother. His problems are on the inside.  
"I'm allowed to spend my day off as I please," he feels like pointing out, but he still gulps down his tea and stands up.

Sometimes, when Harry walks beside Draco on the busy sidewalks, or when he watches him cast furtive glances at the muggle cars, he thinks that there will never be enough time to witness all the little things that Draco is.

-

"Do you need something from the Apothecary?" Draco asks him as they stride through a snowy Diagonal Alley.  
It's the first of December and there aren't many free weekends left before Christmas, so the street is filled with witches and wizards despite the unforgivable cold of London.  
People have gotten used to Harry and Draco walking side by side, so there are no questioning eyes or unwanted insults anymore.

Harry nods his head at some witch he vaguely remembers from the Ministry and responds, slightly irritated,  
"No, I think I'm gonna go to Eeylops'. I'm out of Owl Treats and that damn eagle owl you've given me refuses to take my letters if I don't give her a handful every time."

Draco sighs beside him.  
"Potter, eagle owls are proud creatures. They will make you pay what they deem fit for the service they are providing," he scolds him. "It is difficult to gain their fidelity, but once you do, they remain your companion for the rest of their lives," he adds and turns his head to look at Harry.  
His eyes look unreal above his green, silk scarf.  
  
"And I don't see that happening, since you haven't even bothered to name her."

"I have," Harry murmurs, but he's not quite able to maintain Draco's gaze.

"What is her name, then?" Draco asks, his tone suspicious.

"...ball," he says, hoping that Draco will suddenly lose interest. He briefly thinks about casting a quick _confundus_.

"I can't hear you, Potter," Draco says, the suspicion in his voice shifting to something more dangerous.

Harry closes his eyes, inhales and hopes for the best,  
"Meatball."

The silence stretches out, so Harry pries his eyes open.  
Draco is looking at a distant point over Harry's left shoulder and his lips are moving, but no words are spoken.  
Harry is a little worried.  
After a moment, Draco's sharp eyes meet his.

"You've named the best pure-bred eagle owl that my family's owned in the past fifteen years... Meatball."

Well, when Draco puts it like that it doesn't sound good.  
Harry opts for ultimate defense.

"It wasn't me! It was Rose!" he says, putting his arms in front of himself protectively. Draco only narrows his eyes.  
"I swear! We were having dinner at Hermione's and the owl barged inside, carrying some letters, and refused to give them to me!" he says quickly, outrage coloring his words. "Then Rose held out her tiny hand and there was a piece of meatball on her palm. The owl took it and she even let Rose pet her head," he continues, smiling fondly at the memory. "Rose called her Meatball and she only chirped in response," Harry concludes, shrugging.  
Draco is looking at him with an unreadable expression, but he hasn't yet resolved to physical violence, so Harry gives him a little, apologetic smile.

Then, Draco's ungloved hand touches the soft skin under Harry's eyelid as he slips his slender thumb under the rim of Harry's glasses.

Harry's world stops turning and his breath gets caught in his throat at the cold touch. It's Draco's left hand - the blond has never touched Harry with it.  
And as Harry tries to calm down his stupid, traitorous heart, all he sees is Draco, with his silver hair, silver skin, and silver eyes.

"An eyelash," Draco says simply, and the contact is gone as quickly as it came.  
The blond blows on his thumb and Harry's black eyelash spins into the air.  
"I'll see you at the Leaky in twenty minutes," Draco says and, just like that, he turns in the direction of the Apothecary.  
He hasn't got the slightest idea about the inferno he's awakened in Harry's soul.

-

The Leaky Cauldron is its usual.  
Witches, wizards, hags and even a group of goblins are seated at the long, wooden tables. Hot beverages accompany the pleasant chatter and the rustle of newspapers that fill the room.  
There's a new barman, now, but he's just as hunchbacked and bald as Tom was.  
He nods politely at Harry and swings his hand to the left.  
Harry reciprocates the greeting and makes his way to the table in the left corner of the pub.  
He sees Pansy's black hair right next to Hermione's brown locks.  
Draco's not here, yet, but Harry's arrived early.

"Hello, ladies," he greets them and undoes the buttons of his coat. The temperature inside the pub is high.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione responds with a smile as Pansy throws a "hi, Scarface" in his direction.  
The usual.

Harry unties his scarf and flicks his hand; his garments make their way to the nearby hanger.  
"Show off," Pansy says, downing her fuming drink in one go, and puts her hand above her head for a refill.  
Soon enough the barman spots her and swishes his wand. Pansy's glass replenishes itself swiftly.

"What do you want to drink, Harry?" Hermione asks him from above her Irish Coffee when Harry takes a seat on the bench opposite to hers and Pansy's.  
Harry wants a Butterbeer, as always, because he's never quite grown out of liking it.  
It's shamefully sentimental, but he's drank Butterbeer during many of the most important events of his life, like his first trip to Hogsmeade, the DA's first meeting, or that night Arthur almost died.  
It helps him remember.

He doesn't get the chance to open his mouth, because a bottle of his favorite beverage is put in front of him and his favorite voice says,  
"Scoot over, Potter."

Draco kisses Hermione's and Pansy's hands and sits down heavily, charming his outwear to take itself off and hang itself on top of Harry's coat.

"Somebody's had a long night," Pansy's smile is predatory as she assesses the perpetual tiredness that underlines Draco's features.  
Draco gives her a flat stare, not deigning her with a response, and takes a sip of his Firewhiskey.  
Harry ignores the pull in his stomach at the thought of Draco spending his nights with someone other than Snape.

"Have you made any progress with the Mopsus Potion?" Hermione asks the blond with curiosity, and the two of them entertain a brief conversation about some potion ingredients Harry has never heard of.  
He doesn't mind. It's a good thing they get along.  
He is content to sit down and glance around the pub. He likes to watch and analyze his surroundings; maybe it's because before Voldemort's death he never really had the time to just stop and look. He hasn't had time after, either, because there's been too much damage and too many funerals and not enough things worth looking at.  
It's a shame that Ron always works during the weekends, Harry thinks, but he doesn't blame him; it's when the clientele are at peak.  
He'll make a quick stop at the Weasley Wizard Wheezes later. Besides, Teddy's mentioned that he's out of Nosebleed Nougats. Harry knows he shouldn't buy them, but he also remembers Beans and Trelawney and he feels a bit of empathy for his godson.  
It's not like he uses them every day, anyway.  
Harry inwardly groans at the realization that he still has to buy Teddy a Christmas gift. It won't be easy, since Teddy cannot be left with anything that auto-ignites, explodes, or is dangerous to the user's immediate environment.

"So, what are you wearing for the Charity Dinner?" Pansy asks him impassively, but Harry knows that clothes are one of her few true interests. It's a shame he doesn't share her passion.

"Er...," he starts and takes a big gulp of Butterbeer, thinking about avoiding the topic, but Hermione's arching her brow at him.  
He honestly doesn't understand all the pompousness that accompanies the balls and the galas.

"He'll be wearing a robe matching mine, since we're companions," Draco responds somewhere to his left and Harry chokes on his drink.  
Draco pats him hard on the back and Harry realizes, horrified, that some of the Butterbeer has come out of his nose.  
Hermione passes him a tissue.

"You’re disgusting, Potter," Pansy says, not sparing him another glance and turns to Draco.  
"I forgot you're the Main Sponsor," she says and there's pity in her voice. She yelps when Harry hits her with a Stinging Jinx.

Hermione takes pity on him.  
"I forgot to tell you that it's a Pureblood custom for the Main Sponsor and the Guest of Honor to appear at a ball together," Hermione says apologetically, but Harry knows damn well that she has kept that detail to herself on purpose.  
It's a shame that Draco's beside him. He has to act natural and the choking part has not been very subtle.  
"It represents the unity between money and what people believe in, between power and good. It shows that gold isn't only a mean of exchange for individual purposes," she adds and looks at Draco.  
The blond only nods.

"I've never been someone's companion at any event," Harry grumbles, looking at Hermione with speculation.

"It's because you've been to a total of three events in the last ten years, donating rather that appearing," Hermione reminds him. "And you've never been to one with such a high percentage of Pureblood guests."

"I thought we were past the blood differences," Harry grunts in response.

"We are, but perhaps it's escaped you that the Savior of the Wizarding World is a half-blood and the next Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a muggleborn," Draco says sarcastically, looking pointedly at Harry and then at Hermione.  
Harry transfigures his whiskey into water.  
Draco calls him a child and transfigures the liquid back.  
"Pureblood families are rich and the Amelia Bones Charity Dinner is the most important non-profit happening of the year. Me being the Main Sponsor, with my Father's dirty gold...," the blond says, and the lines of his face harden at the mention of Lucius, "... has assured the participation of all the other, wealthy Purebloods. They don't take down a direct defiance," Draco continues with slight contempt. "They might not participate for the charity itself, preferring to just show off their money, but it still means that they will _spend_ ," he fixes his gaze on Harry again. "It also means that some of our customs must be preserved."

Harry quickly glances away, pretending to be contemplating Draco's words.  
He feels a warm sensation in his stomach because he knows that Draco doesn't help out of public obligation. He's fought for years after the war, but not to regain the Malfoy name. Not anymore.  
He's fought to repay everybody for his own, wrong choices, and maybe to prove himself that he is worth something as a person.

Harry has been at his side since he’d seen him clumsily scrubbing plates and goblets in the Hogwarts kitchen, a few weeks after the war, with his sleeves rolled up and his hands full of soap. Half of the kitchen had been destroyed in the attack. It had taken almost all of the house elves too.  
Draco hadn't turned to look at Harry. He had just said,  
"You can either stare or do something useful and help me. People have to eat. It's been a long day for everybody."  
Harry helped Draco, finally. He rolled up his sleeves and put his hands under the lukewarm water in the sink.  
He hadn't felt the need to ask Draco why he'd chosen not to use magic. Some things are better when done the proper way; like Dobby's grave at the Shell Cottage.

"If you're wearing silver and green, I'm not coming," is the only thing that comes out of Harry's mouth.  
He doesn't like the triumph he sees in Hermione's eyes. She's never stopped trying to get them together, but for being such a stubborn woman she clearly misses the most important detail: Draco doesn't love him, nor will he ever.

"I’ll wear silver and green," Pansy says, swinging her second drink. Harry stopped worrying about her liver years ago. "Black only attracts assholes and dark wizards."

"You are, by definition, a dark witch," Harry says, because somebody has to state the obvious.

"Yes, but I'm not fucking creepy, Potter," Pansy answers, looking at Harry with exasperation.

"Well, some might disagree...," Harry responds and shields himself from a peanut directed at his face.  
Draco snorts beside him.

"I'm going to see Ron," Hermione says after some more insults are exchanged. "Anybody coming with me?"

Harry grins at her.  
"Gotta restock Teddy's Skiving Snackbox."

"I knew it was you! I have very explicitly forbidden Teddy to use those damn things," Draco spats. "That boy goes to you every time I say no! You have no goddamned sense of responsibility."  
Harry sometimes forgets that Draco's is Teddy's only remaining relative on Tonks' side, beside Andromeda and Narcissa, and that their methods of raising a teenager are different. He grins.

"It's not my fault that you're so old on the inside, Draco. The boy just wants to enjoy his school years," he says, avoiding Draco's wand aimed at his ribs. "Besides, he's got the Prefect badge now, so he can do whatever he wants," he adds, feeling pride.

"And the badge sure as hell was not your doing, you slack-off," Draco spits in response and his cheeks pink up delightfully.

"Think about all those girls he can show the Prefects' bathr...," Harry says, because he's never known when to stop, but he doesn't finish. A harsh _s _ilencio__ shuts him up effectively, but he laughs nonetheless at Draco's pure outrage.

"Now that you've finished your bickering, I'm going to see my husband before I go and retrieve my children from the Burrow," Hermione interrupts, standing up quickly and taking her jacket off the hanger.  
Harry hurries to his feet, casting a non-verbal countercharm to free his voice, but he's surprised to see that Draco's lifting himself from the bench as well. He doesn't like to go to the Weasleys'.  
He says it's because of the noise and the screaming children, but Harry knows better.  
It's because he's alive, and Fred isn’t.

"Don't think for a second that I will let you buy Teddy that damned thing," Draco says sternly.  
The blond doesn't know that Harry is, theoretically, one of the Wizarding Wheezes' owners.

Harry looks at Pansy.  
"I have some fittings at Twilfitt's and I won't have any of you seeing my dress before the dinner," she says, looking at Harry with narrowed eyes.

"You say it like I would like that, Parkinson," Harry answers.

"Oh, I know very well what you'd like to see, Potter, and that isn't me," Pansy smirks and her head turns almost imperceptibly towards Draco.

Harry's heart stops in his chest, but Pansy only laughs.

"It's a shame I like you, really," she says and dismisses him with her hand.  
Harry breaths out.  
He was sure Pansy didn't know, but apparently, he hasn't hidden his emotions well enough. Panic rises to his throat. If Pansy knows, then perhaps Draco knows as well.

A ' _he doesn't know, you sod_ ' invades his mind almost painfully.  
Harry knows it's Pansy. He also knows that she wouldn't lie to him, not when she's just used legilimency.

Before he can stir any more suspicions, he wraps his scarf around his face and heads to the bar.

"Mister Malfoy has already settled the bill, Mister Potter," the barman says, and Harry turns towards Draco, but the man ignores him, disappearing onto the street behind the heavy, wooden door after Hermione.

-

"Our favorite investor!" George says amicably in his ear as he gives Harry an one-armed hug.

"I'm your only investor," Harry responds, grinning.  
He'll never get used to see George without Fred, but it helps when he pretends that Fred is simply out, experimenting or researching, even if he knows that it's not a healthy way of coping.  
He's not ready to face the fact that Fred is dead because Harry failed to protect him, just like he failed to protect Remus and Tonks, Collin, Sirius, and all the others who fought for him. Now they're all in the ground, while he walks the streets like he deserves it.

Harry pushes the thoughts away before they get out of hand and glances around the chaotic shop. He doesn't want George to catch him thinking about Fred.

Everything's tinted red, gold and green.  
Harry catches a glimpse of floating, self-hanging mistletoe (" _Are you that loser who never gets the Christmas kiss? Not anymore! Hangs instantly everywhere, reusable. Try your luck_!") right next to the huge selection of WonderWitch products, with giggling witches gathered around the Love Potions.

"I need some Nosebleed Nougats, but Draco can’t know," he whispers, snapping his mouth shut and smiling innocently as soon as he catches the blond man looking at them.

George chuckles and gives him another half-hug that hides his face.  
"Teddy Lupin, dormitory 2D, Hufflepuff common room?" He smiles wider when Harry nods imperceptibly.

George has never blamed Draco for Fred, but apparently that's not enough to easy Draco's guilt.

"Need some Calamity Lotion, Malfoy?" George asks Draco from above Harry's shoulder and the blond quickly steps away from the violently pink display.  
Harry huffs out a laugh, but all the air escapes his lungs when Ron slaps his shoulder in his friendly 'best mate' greeting and shouts,

"Hi, Malfoy!"

It takes him a second to regain his breath and he swears he hears a ' _serves you_   _right_ ' from where Draco's standing.  
He doesn't have the time to respond, though, because Ron starts talking animatedly about the last Quidditch Championship match of the mid-season. Hermione's behind him and she's got that expression she has every time they talk about Quidditch: painfully bored.

"Next week is Canons, Harry, and I swear on Merlin's saggy b-" Hermione throws him a hard look and motions to the elderly wizard on the left, "-ehm, beard-" Ron corrects himself quickly, giving said wizard a sheepish smile, "-that if they win, I'm buying us Finale tickets," he says with conviction. "The Auror Department will manage a day or two without the Golden Boy."

"It will, but will Rose and Hugo?" Harry asks, because Hermione's looking at Ron sternly.  
Ron turns to his wife and laughs nervously.

"Honey, I'm sure mum will be delighted to keep them for a weekend," he says and leans to kiss her cheek.  
Hermione rolls her eyes, but then smiles warmly.

"I guess you boys deserve some testosterone-filled time."

Harry and Ron high-five, because they're still sixteen when they're together.

When Ron starts speaking again, Harry glances towards Draco; the blond man is talking about something with George, but his voice is too low and the noise in the shop is too high for Harry to hear them.  
He doesn't want to, anyway.  
He knows only what Draco decides to entrust him and that's enough.  
Nevertheless, he can't stop a small frown from forming between his eyebrows when he notices that Draco's hands are clenched at his sides and that his usual calm façade is replaced with a  stoic one.  
He looks away.  
Some battles are solely Draco's to fight.

__________________•___________________

  
The evening comes and goes peacefully.  
Harry's got an old, charmed, and not quite legal television hidden behind two wooden shutters that the past owners built to separate a small niche in the wall from the rest of the living room.  
He has already eaten dinner and watched an old, black and white movie of which’s title has escaped him. Sleep comes easily.

He never would have expected to be awakened by a loud bang coming from somewhere inside his apartment, yet he finds himself quickly reaching for the wand under his pillow, all the numbness gone in an instant.  
He puts his glasses on and casts a quiet  _homenum_   _revelio_ , slowly making his way to the door.  
An anxious thrill settles in his muscles when his wand vibrates, indicating a human presence in his house.  
He takes a deep breath to clear his head.  
He's not worried. He's been trained for this.

He puts his hand on the doorknob just as something hits the floor in his living room.  
He wavers, because he recognizes the action. It usually accompanies the rolling of a glass on the floor.

His wand points slightly to the right.  
Harry opens the door and lunges to the left, casting a non-verbal _e _xpelliarmus__  with a speed that surprises even himself.

"Why would you take my wand again, Harry?"

Harry stops in his tracks and squints.  
There's not much light coming from behind the closed curtains of his living room, but he recognizes the voice. Of course he does.  
However, the spoken words are slurred. Something's not right.

"Draco?" he says quietly.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Draco responds, and there's something in his tone that makes Harry's heart clench.

He casts a  _lumos_  and his stomach drops.

Draco sprawled on his armchair, his hair untied, and his cravat undone. There's an open bottle of Firewhiskey at the edge of Harry's carpet, the fabric dark from the spilled liquid.

Harry doesn't know what to do, but he forces himself to act calmly. He thinks bitterly that being an Auror is the only thing he can do well, after all.

He removes the stain with a  _tergeo_  and levitates the bottle to the countertop in the kitchen.  
Only then he lets himself look at the other man. He's never seen Draco in such bad shape. His friend is murmuring something under his breath, but as soon as Harry takes a step in his direction, he looks up.

"Draco, what have you done?" Harry asks quietly, because two tears escape the grey, bloodshot eyes.

"He's gone, Harry," Draco responds, his voice breaking. "He's gone and George still looks at me and smiles at me, but all I can ever see are Fred's eyes-" he says frantically, his hands closing on the armrest, "-and they are dead, Harry-" a sob escapes his lips and Harry thinks he might cry as well, "-those eyes are dead and there won't be life in them because of me!" he shouts, falling to his knees.

Harry instinctively sits down at his side just as Draco's white shirt catches more tears.

"Draco, it's not your f-" he tries, because he doesn't know what to say, but Draco grabs his shoulders.

"Don't you  _dare_  say that it's not my fault, Potter!" he growls, and his grip tightens painfully. "Everywhere I go, there's someone who’s lost somebody when I was cowardly hiding behind my parents' backs!" he shouts and there's pure, raw desperation in his voice. "Sometimes I can’t even look at Teddy, and last week I called Greg Vincent! I couldn't save any of them, Harry, what a worthless person does that make me?" he cries out as more tears escape his eyes. His grip on Harry's shoulders loosens and it seems that Draco's not able to hold up his own arms anymore.  
The Dark Mark is a black stain on his forearm.

Harry sighs and tries to lift himself, but Draco's left hand closes around his bicep again.  
"No, you cannot leave me too," the blond says and his eyes are looking feverishly into Harry's.  
Harry places a hand on Draco's.

"I'm going to show you something. I'll be right back," he says, trying to put as much reassurance in his voice as he can muster.  
It works, because Draco drops his hand and slumps back, resting his head on the armrest behind him.

Harry opens the box that is perched on top of his commode.  
He can't find the right words, but he's always been better at showing rather than speaking.

The pensieve casts an ethereal glow on Draco's face when Harry puts it down on the floor in front of him.  
Draco's eyes are questioning. They seem sober for the first time, tonight.

"Look," Harry whispers, "please."

Draco takes the pensieve in his hands and Harry steadies it when the other man's hands waver.  
The tip of his nose touches the pearly fluid in the bowl.

Harry knows what Draco's going to see. He'll look with Harry's eyes, because Harry's taken away not only the memory, but all the emotions as well. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to move forward.

Harry has never shown anybody his death.

His hands are sweaty, and his heart is beating loudly, but something tells him that the memory is exactly what Draco needs to see. He needs to see that he's not the only one.

He needs to talk to Dumbledore, because the old man's words were directed at Harry just as much as they were directed at Draco. He has been a brave, young man too. He just made wrong choices.

Tonight, he will be able to sacrifice his life as well. Maybe it will put his soul to peace, just a little.

After what seems an eternity, Draco re-emerges from Harry's memories. Harry is still kneeling beside him and he holds in his breath, waiting for a glimpse of Draco's face, hidden behind the long, blond strands.  
Doubt grasps his chest.

Draco puts the pensieve on the floor with trembling hands. The same hands, one hot and one cold, reach out and cover Harry's own. Draco lifts his head.  
There's a strand of hair that's not fallen back like the rest; it's trapped in the corner of Draco's mouth and Harry wants to put it behind his ear, but he doesn't. He knows that anybody else in Draco's place would've spoken, would've been terrified, angry or surprised.  
Draco is not anybody else.  
His eyes resemble the moon, dark and light at the same time, and maybe it's the pensieve that makes them look like that.  
Draco doesn't say anything for a long time, but there's no need to. Harry feels the lump in his throat slowly fade away. He moves only when Draco falls forwards, his eyes losing their focus. The smell of Firewhiskey is strong.

"Let's take you home, Draco. Can you stand a Side-Along, or do you prefer the floo?" Harry asks slowly, making sure that Draco understands what he's saying.  
What he doesn't expect is sudden panic in Draco's posture and in his voice.

"No," he says in denial, his eyes wide.

Harry sighs.  
"Draco, you have to go back home, you're drunk and it's the middle of the night." he says calmly, gripping Draco's forearm to help him stand up.  
Draco wrestles it away.  
Harry doesn't want to force Draco to lift himself from the ground, but it seems that he'll have to. He ponders if he should cast a weak _stupefy_ and then move Draco with a _mobilicorpus_ , but in the end he doesn't reach for his wand.

"Don't make me be alone again," Draco whispers almost inaudibly. "Loneliness is the only thing that awaits me in that cursed place," he says, and there's a silent plea in his voice. His eyes are glassy once more.

Harry has no clue what he should do when an intoxicated love of his life begs him not to be taken home. He wishes Hermione was here; she'd know how to approach the situation.  
He glances at the couch that's placed in front of the television. He's slept on it many times before; one more night won't be a problem.

"Come on then, you'll sleep here," he says in resignation, but when Draco smiles at him, all the nervousness is back.  
Draco will sleep in his bed, where Harry's had numerous, non-platonic dreams about the other man.  
He's grateful that the light in the living room is faint at best, because the blush on his cheeks is prominent, even if he doubts that Draco would be able to distinguish it in his current state.

He helps the other man to his feet and steadies him with an arm around Draco's slender waist. He doesn't let himself think about the contact, because Draco's drunk. He won't let himself believe more than he already does.

"Where are we going?" Draco mumbles, leaning heavily onto Harry. It's a miracle he didn't splinch himself when he apparated here.

"To my room. I'll give you a pair of pajamas and then you're going to sleep, okay?" Harry responds with fatigue. Draco is heavier than he looks, but Harry doesn't want to cast a lightening charm.  
Draco says something incomprehensible under his breath, but all Harry catches is 'ugly pajamas.' He smiles despite the whole situation.  
Once they're in the bedroom, Harry casts a wandless  _lumos_  and summons a clean pair of cotton pants and a t-shirt. He doesn't own anything fancy, so that'll have to do.

"The bathroom's right across the room," he starts, but then his voice gets caught in his throat. Draco can change himself, can't he?  
"Er... I'll wait here, so you can... Uhm...," he tries, gesticulating nervously to the clothes and then to the bathroom.  
Very smooth, Harry.  
He's saved from utter embarrassment, because Draco's already disappearing behind the bathroom's door, knocking his shoulder on the doorframe only once.

Harry paces around nervously and  _accio_ _s_  a glass of water and a calming draught for tomorrow's inevitable headache.  
He doesn't let himself think about what's just happened. Not yet. There'll be enough time later.  
He jolts when something hits the bathroom door. Or someone, given the groan that succeeds.  
Harry hurries and opens the door, keeping his gaze high in case Draco hasn't finished to dress himself.  
The blond man is on the floor, fortunately fully clothed, but he seems to have fallen asleep.  
Harry passes a hand through his hair. Draco probably won't remember anything tomorrow.  
It's a bittersweet realization, but maybe for Draco to forget is for the better. Malfoys are proud, and Harry doesn't know if their relationship would remain the same if Draco remembered.  
Anxiety makes his stomach tighten.  
Draco is the only reason he keeps trying. He cannot lose him.

Taking Draco by the armpits, he moves the man to the bed and settles the covers around him. Draco's eyes are closed, and his lips are slightly parted and glimmering in the light of Harry's bedside lamp. He looks like a masterpiece that's been put away in a far corner of an attic for years, ragged to the bones, but beautiful nonetheless.  
Harry memorizes the view. He doesn't get to think how much he'd like to fall asleep seeing it every day, because Draco's eyelids flutter and his hazy eyes find anchor in Harry's startled ones.  
The blond looks like he's trying to focus on something with what little is left of his lucidity and Harry doesn't understand even if he tries to, but then Draco turns his head to the side, where Harry's right hand is laying on the cushion to support his body.  
Harry stills completely when Draco's cheek, still moist from the tears, meets the back of his hand and just stays there as Draco closes his eyes for the last time that night.

-

Harry thinks about what happened when he finally retreats to the living room. He's given so much, but all he's gained in these fifteen years might be gone in the morning.

The thing is, Harry's been at Draco's side since that day in the Hogwarts' kitchen.  
He had watched with wonder and disbelief when Draco stood up during his own trial and admitted his faults in front of what had been left of the Wizengamot.  
Harry remembers the echo of the chains that shook in unison with Draco's hands which were, scratched, burnt, and hurt from the manual work at Hogwarts some weeks before.  
Harry stood up as well, during his trial, and spoke about what he had seen at the Astronomy Tower when Dumbledore had fallen. He spoke about Draco's lie when the Deatheaters caught them and took them to the Manor, much to Ron’s disbelief and to Hermione's wondering eyes looking at him in the courtroom.  
He hadn't waited for the verdict to be announced. He left as soon as he finished, nodding at Draco as he passed him. They had been of equal height, even if some time later Draco outgrew him.  
When Draco's suspicious, white face turned towards him, Harry promised himself that he would erase the doubt from those haunted eyes; there had been too much evil, during the War, and more distrust wasn’t needed.

It's taken a lot of perseverance, because Draco's eyes have remained wary for a long time, even after all those visits Harry paid him in Azkaban.  
He had set foot on that obscure island too many times, and each time he hadn't known what to say, because Draco's was obstinately proud.  
At some point, he started bringing books, and chess, and food, because even the conversions of plastic cutlery had been better than the silence of that damp corridor. All the times Draco heard him come near the bars he sat down and faced the wall, ignoring Harry, but Harry had been more stubborn.  
On the fourth month of silence, the blond boy tentatively reached out and taken the white king with his long fingers. Harry had dropped the book he had been reading, but when he'd seen the uncertainty in Draco's features, he calmly arranged all the pieces on the chessboard. After a bit Draco made the first move.

Harry falls asleep somewhere around five in the morning, too hot from tossing and turning on his couch in a vain attempt to sooth his mind. His dreams are haunted by the tickle of Draco's hair on Harry's cheeks and by Draco going away and coming back, only to be gone again.

-

Harry awakens to an empty bedroom, but before he can panic he sees that Draco had left him a note on the bedside table:

_Potter,_

_I've applied some of Snape's Purifying Potion on the stain that I've left on your carpet and that you've tried, quite unsuccessfully, to remove. I've modified the Potion so that it will evaporate spontaneously when all the alcohol is absorbed; that way, there's no risk you'll forget to vanish it and thus your carpet won't become completely transparent._   
_The upcoming week I will be busy with the last adjustments that have to be done before the dinner, since it's my responsibility to co-supervise its organization, but I expect you to meet me at the Leaky Cauldron on Saturday at 10 AM. I sincerely hope you didn't think that I'd let you come to the event without a proper grooming. I must get you accustomed to this useful and uncomplicated object called 'scissors.' I'm sure you've heard of them, even if your appearance might stir some doubts._

_Yours,_

_Draco L. Malfoy_

Harry reads it again and again, until the preoccupation in his mind fades and a smile creeps on his tired face. It doesn't matter if Draco remembers or not. They're good.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry is knocking on the wooden door of Ron and Hermione's cottage.  
It is truly a welcoming house, with its big windows, vast garden, and an ugly, ceramic gnome Harry had gotten them as a housewarming gift. He had laughed at Hermione's poor attempts at being grateful without being impolite while he summoned the real gifts – a beautifully carved bookshelf and a hanger for Ron's brooms – but the gnome hasn't left the spot beside the door since then.  
He stopped at a muggle café on his way, buying some of those pastries he knows Hermione and Rose adore and some beers for him and Ron.  
He likes spending time at their place, filled with Rose's happy chatter and Hugo's first learned words that he repeats all the time.  
Ron and Hermione have never made him feel inadequate. Harry knows that there'll always be a place for him here, and it won't be secondary.

"Uncle Harry!" is the only thing Harry hears before forty-five pounds hit his leg and Rose hangs herself on his thigh.  
"There's my favorite girl!" he exclaims as he picks her up and tosses her in the air. Rose giggles and her curly, red hair bounces around her little face.

"Uncle Harry, have you bring me something?" she shouts in delight as she reaches for the bag filled with pastries that Harry swiftly hides behind his back.

" 'Have you  _brought_  me' or ' _did_  you bring me', Rose," Harry corrects her and he's met with Hermione's amused expression in the corridor. After a moment, Hugo's placed in his other arm. The other is still occupied by Rose, who's now trying to hang down from his shoulder to reach for the bag that Harry charmed with a  _Wingardium Leviosa_. Hugo, on the other hand, is busy grabbing at Harry's hair with his little, chubby fingers.

"Ron's in the kitchen," Hermione says briefly, and turns around. Harry follows her, making Rose hang upside down on his shoulder.

"Has he cooked tonight?" Harry asks, aiming for casual, but apparently the relief on his face is not hidden properly when Hermione nods, because she smacks him on the forehead.

"I'll have you know that I'm getting better, I've read everything about how to properly prepare a meal," she says with conviction.

"I'm sure you have, Hermione," Harry grins and shields himself with Hugo outstretched before Hermione can react.

"Using my children against me? What has our friendship come to, Harry?" she sighs theatrically and reciprocates Harry's grin as they enter the kitchen.

"Hi, mate!" Ron greets him, stirring something in a big pot with his wand. He's got on the apron Harry bought him when he and Draco visited Narcissa in France. He would've never gone, but Narcissa invited him personally.  
Harry likes Draco's mother, not only because she's saved his life, but because she cares for Draco unconditionally.  
She knows that Harry loves her son. She's known since she's seen how Harry looks at Draco when the blond is not aware, but when Harry tried to deny and apologize she only smiled and squeezed his hand.

"Brought any beer?" Ron asks, and Harry levitates the bag to the countertop, making the bottles clink.  
"Cheers!" he exclaims as Harry tries to disentangle his hair from Hugo's iron grip.

"What is a beer?" Rose's head peeks up curiously.

"I think it's time for you to go to bed," Hermione says quickly, taking her children from Harry's arms.

"Mommy, can I choose the story today?" Rose asks, hugging Hermione's neck.

"Yes, but choose one Hugo likes as well."

"Don't worry, Mummy, I'm the best at knowing what Hugo likes!"

-

"I love Draco."

The words just escape Harry. They're sitting by the fireplace, Ron and Harry on their second beer and Hermione with a glass of wine. It's almost like they're back in the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione glances at him questioningly, but Harry's looking at Ron. He's tired of avoiding the truth with his best friend.

"You've only realized that now?"

"No, I've known for... Wait, what?" Harry asks, because he must have misheard.

Ron sighs and shifts in his armchair.  
"Mate, I've started to have my suspicions during the sixth year, but then you visited Malfoy for a year and a half in Azkaban and now you cook for him because you know he doesn't eat-"  
Harry's eyes are wide and his lips parted, but Ron gives him a look that's so Hermione that he stays silent.  
"-you've asked me how to cook codfish and I know you'd never buy it for yourself. Oh, and you always carry an extra scarf, probably because he wears that thin thing only rich people wear... I could go on, you know," Ron says, but Harry shakes his head. Sometimes he forgets that his friend is a good observer.

"I can't believe that you got this, but you needed a book to conquer Hermione" Harry says in defeat and amazement, while Ron blushes to the top of his ears and Hermione laughs.

"I've known, Ron. I gave Neville the same book when he decided to invite Ginny to the Yule Ball," she says, and her brown eyes are sparkling with fondness.  
Ron blushes some more, but his gaze diverts to Harry again.

"Okay, so what's the plan?"

Harry frowns in confusion.  
"What plan?"

"How do we conquer Draco Malfoy? And by 'we' I mean 'you', not that I'm against loving men, but blond and flat-chested is not exactly my type," Ron says and wiggles his brows at Hermione, who tries to kick him on the leg as her hand reaches instinctively to hide her breasts.

"We don't," Harry sighs, and before Ron or Hermione can express their disagreement, he adds,  
"I've thought about it long enough, Ron, and I'm happy as it is. I'm not somebody Draco could love back, with my endless work, general appearance, and poor jokes. He doesn't need a war survivor. I don’t think he even likes men and if he does I would've noticed. I've known him since we were eleven."

"Merlin, and I thought I had low self-esteem, mate," Ron chuckles, shaking his head.  
"Listen, I don't know Malfoy that well. We get along because of you, mainly, but he's not a bad person. What I can tell for sure, though, is that if there's someone who's not worth the other, it's Malfoy and not the other way around. I've never met a more selfless, stubborn, kind-hearted and self-sacrificing bastard than you and anyone would be lucky to have your undivided attention," Ron says matter-of-factly, tilting his beer to emphasize his point.  
Harry doesn't know if he's more shocked by Ron's perceptiveness or by the fact that he's talking about emotions and he's trying to cheer Harry up.

"And before we start to braid our hair and sing Celestina, I'll make my own assessments based on what I see from now on," Ron concludes, leaning back and closing his eyes. He apparently can be sensitive only for short spans of time. That's good, Harry thinks, because it's disturbing.

"Harry...," Hermione starts and Harry knows that tone. She uses it every time she tries to convince him to tell Draco how he feels.

"Hermione, don't."

"I just want to see you happy," she says at last and Ron nods in agreement.  
Harry groans and finishes his beer in one go.

"Don't worry, I'll come up with something brilliant. Just give me some time," Ron says magnanimously from his armchair, and Harry puts his face in his hands.

__________________•___________________

  
The next week passes in a blur of documents and pursuits. It's fairly easy for Harry to bury himself in his work, since it always increases before Christmas. He'll only get six or seven free days to stay with the Weasleys, and Teddy and Andromeda, but he has to sweat for it.  
He's glad that in the end he hadn't accepted Kinglsey's offer to become Head Auror. Being the chief of one division is bothersome enough; besides, seeing Teddy's smile when they go flying or Molly's delight when she feeds him the third portion of her stew is worth not being on the top.

Burying himself in his work also means that Harry doesn't have time to fully perceive Draco's raging absence in front of his fireplace, a tea mug in one hand and yet another witty answer to something Harry's said on his lips.  
He still continues to cook dinner for two, packing meticulously Draco's portion, securing it with a strong Warming Charm and making Meatball deliver it to wherever Draco is. The eagle owl hasn't protested even once. She knows who the food is for and she apparently approves.

Draco, in exchange, sends him a book on Thursday. Its title is ' _How to Avoid Embarrassing Your Charming Friends During Important Events: A Guide for Socially Inept Individuals._ '  
Harry sends him a Howler in which he asks if it would be socially inept to shove that book up his Pureblood ass. He sincerely hopes that Draco is surrounded by many people when he receives it.

He receives a letter from Teddy as well and he smiles as he goes through his godson's loopy handwriting.

_Dear Uncle Harry,_

_You're the best! You don't know how much suffering I've avoided this Friday! Professor Trelawney decided that since Jupiter was in a position which name I don't remember because it was too long, we had to do an extra three hour lesson at midnight to be 'guided by its light’. Can you imagine?! Well, you probably can, since you've had her and she always talked about your dad._  
_I_   _hope you're not in trouble with Uncle Draco, since I might've forgotten to mention that he told me not to use the candies. But I'm sure that if you are, he won't stay mad for too long. He never does, with you.  
The last Quidditch game is in less than a week and I'm really nervous, because we have to win against Gryffindor if we want to start from the first position next_   _semester. And then there's the Yule Ball! Why do all the girls have to walk in herds? Was it like this when you were young, too? Not that you're old, of course._  
_By the way, Headmistress McGonagall showed us the photos from your Yule Ball. Uncle Ron's robe is the ugliest thing I've ever seen, but don't tell him I said that. The pictures have immortalized his desperation well enough.  
__I can’t wait to see you. I’m gunna ask Gran if I can spend some_   _days at your place_   _before Christmas. I have so much to tell you!_  
_The_   _parchment_   _is ending, but I've got one last question: will Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur be at the Burrow this year? Last year they went to France. I'm asking because I want to see them, obviously, so don't think it's about Victoire_.

 _I love you_ ,

 _Teddy_.

___________________•___________________

  
"You're late," is the only thing Harry gets from Draco as he curses under his breath, trying to disentangle himself from his scarf.

"No, I'm not," Harry responds, looking pointedly at the huge clock hung behind the Leaky's countertop. It's 9:58 AM.

"Yes, you are. You'd know that if you read the third chapter of the guidebook. It's an unspoken rule to show up ten minutes before the established schedule," Draco says with exasperation and he orders two teas, poking the menu twice with his wand.

Harry doesn't voice his opinion on unspoken rules; he doesn't want to be rude in public.  
"Did you get my letter?" he asks instead, grinning smugly.

If looks could kill, Harry'd probably be dead. Again.  
"You will pay for it dearly, Potter."

"Sure I will, Malfoy," Harry responds, smiling wider when Draco's eyes darken.  
He's just happy that nothing's changed.

"Have you slept?" he asks after a moment, assessing Draco's appearance.

"Enough to get through the day," the blond man shrugs, taking a sip of his tea, and Harry frowns. Draco should take better care of himself. If only he'd let Harry...  
"You have an appointment with Batworthy in twenty minutes," Draco interrupts his thoughts.

"Batworthy...," Harry's not sure he knows that person.

"The barber, Potter," Draco sighs and rubs his brow. He looks like he's got a headache. Merlin knows if he's eaten.

Harry orders two slices of today's breakfast cake, because Draco has a soft spot for sweets.  
When his friend throws him an irritated look, Harry ignores him completely and takes the first bite, picking up an abandoned newspaper from the nearby table. Draco will start eating as soon as he thinks Harry's not paying attention to him.  
Harry has to stop himself from smiling when he hears the clink of Draco's fork on the porcelain plate a moment later.

-

It turns out that the barber shop is in Knockturn Alley; that’s why Harry wasn’t familiar with the name.  
As they enter, a hag with the left half of her head completely shaved passes them in the doorway.  
Harry glances at Draco with disconcert, because he actually likes having all his hair in place, but the blond rolls his eyes and shoves him inside.

The barber himself is old and his prominent baldness is accentuated by a long, grey beard that falls down on his thin chest.  
Draco nods at him and the barber nods back. The old man's eyes rest on Harry's scar for a couple of seconds, and Harry’s glad when he doesn't say anything. He just instructs him to sit down in a leather, wobbly chair with a complicated succession of grunts. Batworthy doesn't seem to be a man of many words.

As the length of his hair gets readjusted, Harry's distrust vanishes. The barber, whose name is turns out to be Podrick, knows his job.  
Harry tries not to glance at Draco, who's regarding the old man's work from a small couch that's reflected in the big, cracked mirror in front of Harry's seat.

The grooming finishes surprisingly quickly and Harry thinks that not much has changed, but Draco makes an appreciative hum as Harry turns around to set the bill. Well, he's better at this stuff.  
With the goodbye grunts exchanged, Harry opens the door and tightens the scarf around his neck, where the hair is shorter than it used to be.

He makes a few quick steps towards Diagon Alley, but soon realizes that Draco is not following him. Harry turns around, thinking that the blond might've stopped at some doubtfully legal store, but Draco is firm in the middle of the cobblestone road.  
His hair floats around his face in the strong wind and he shivers a bit, but he doesn't move. He just looks uncertain.  
Harry glances at him questioningly, and after a few heartbeats Draco's expression shifts from stern to determined. He closes the distance between them and Harry uses all his willpower to look at his face and not at his pink lips.

"Help me make the Manor home."

Harry blinks, because he would've never expected such a question.  
He wants to ask ' _What_?' but it wouldn't be the right answer.  
He won't say ' _Why me?_ ' or ' _I have no idea how to make it_   _home_ ' either.

"On a scale from zero to minus ten, how happy will Snape be to see me?" he responds, and the relief that crosses Draco's face before the blond masks it with a smirk is all Harry needs.

"A scale from zero to Blast-Ended Skrewt might be more accurate, Golden Boy."

_____________________•______________________

The Manor hasn't changed much since the last time Harry had been here, six years ago.  
The gate doesn't twist itself into a caricatural face any more, but the interior is almost the same. Many of the valuable objects that've filled the dark corners of every room have been taken away after the trial, but Lucius was a wise man when it came to money. It's been invested in places even the greedy hands of the Ministry couldn't reach.

As Harry waits for Draco in the Third Parlour, which is bigger than his whole apartment, he thinks that he wouldn't want to live here either. There are too many eyes on the walls and too little noise. Everything vanishes in the long, high corridors.  
He looks at all the things that are contained in the room.  
He has no idea where they should start.

-

Harry strips off his pullover, the heat of the fireplace in the Parlour is only increasing his irritation.  
There is an ugly, ostentatious ring in a small glass-case that Draco wants to keep for Merlin knows what reason and somehow it's Harry's mission to retrieve it.  
The lid of the case has attempted to cut Harry's fingers off four times, so now he's keeping it open with a spell, while his unoccupied hand is trying to grab the damned ring, but it keeps rolling from one side to another.  
After minutes of hard concentration and countless silent imprecations, his fingers close around the cold metal.  
"Fucking piece of trash, finally!"

"You are just as uncivilized and unpleasant as I remembered you to be," a deep, nasal voice says somewhere to Harry's left.

"I'm delighted to see you as well, Professor," Harry turns and gives Snape his brightest smile.  
The man in the portrait scowls in disgust.  
"And I like your new paint," he adds and pretends he hasn't heard the ' _Please_ ,  _be silent_ '.  
"It underlines your...," he makes an aborted motion with his hands, trying to pinpoint anything positive about his old teacher, "... Robe."

"Draco, why, of all people, have you invited Potter?" Snape turns to Draco, who is pulling at an old painting with both hands, his wand long forgotten on the floor.

"Just come off, you goddamned, old bastard!" the blond growls, giving the frame a last, unsuccessful pull and turns around, looking angrily at Snape.  
"At least he does something."

"It might've escaped your notice, but I'm dead and this pitiful portrait contains only an ephemeral part of my old self," Snape responds with a painfully bored voice,  
"I would help if I could."

Draco snorts.  
"No, you would not."

"No, I wouldn't, but I gathered that by stating the contrary I might've diminished your misery."

"How are you even here?" Harry asks from his part of the now half-empty room. He doesn't know how late it is.

"Draco has imprinted a small amount of his magic into my canvas, so I can move freely inside this building," Snape responds and looks at Harry with distaste, whom pats his face dry with his pullover.

Harry glances at Draco.  
He falls in love a little bit more, because Draco's hair is disheveled, his cheeks are flushed, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone.  
He mouths,  
' _Even in your bedroom_?' and goes for a horrified expression.

Draco looks at him, then at Snape, and then laughs. His shoulders slump in tiredness as he passes a hand through his platinum hair.

"I'm not blind, Potter, and you have the same amount of maturity you had when you were thirteen. And I despise stupid, hormonal teenagers," Snape snarls through his bared teeth.

"Tell me something I don't know, Professor," Harry responds with a big smile.  
Snape ignores him. He vanishes and reappears right beside the painting Draco's been trying to remove for the past hour.

"There is no trace of a Permanent Sticking Charm, but I can perceive some old magic on the back of the frame," he says after a moment.  
"Bottle number 146, my personal collection," he tells Draco and disappears.

"He could've said that forty minutes ago," Draco scowls and Harry laughs.

-

Draco has a house elf named Deemey.  
There is no more house elf slavery, now, but Hermione failed to change the house elves' innate desire to serve.  
They are, however, free to choose whom to give their loyalty to. They can also decide to take it away, should it be the case.

Deemey prepares them tea and food, so they don't starve to death buried under all the nefarious, unwilling to participate objects.  
When Draco leaves to the bathroom to scrub away a strongly smelling, unknown substance from his trousers, Harry tells Deemey to force-feed Draco if he forgets to eat for more than seven hours, even if his Master says otherwise.  
Deemey smiles at him.

-

"Potter."

Harry drops the box full of candelabras.

"Yes, sir?" he asks loudly, glancing at Snape with resentment.  
The man just looks at him, smirks, and disappears.

"I hate you even more now than when you were alive," Harry murmurs to the empty wall.

"Have you dropped anything extremely valuable?" Draco asks from behind a green and silver tapestry.  
Harry hurriedly levitates the box.

-

Harry goes to the Manor on Monday and Tuesday as well.

"Now that you've emptied the room, not to mention that there are approximately fifty-seven other areas in this Manor, what will you do?" Snape asks from his spot on the wall. He seems to find a disturbing amusement in watching their hard, often fruitless work.

Draco arches his brow.

"I'm going to acquire new things, of course," and he looks pointedly at Harry.

Harry groans.

-

"Draco, why is there a kitchen in the Parlour and why is the Parlour twice its original size?" Harry asks on Wednesday.

Draco huffs and diverts his eyes from a catalogue. He's sitting on an enormous sofa that's at the center of the room.

"Magical houses can be mended according to the owner's will and rooms can be moved from one location to another in the property perimeter if they already exist," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Of course, how stupid of me. Let me mend my own, old Manor a bit," he responds with sarcasm.

"Which color would be better for the walls?" Draco asks him and lifts the catalogue, pointing at two small rectangles.  
They are exactly the same.

"They are exactly the same," Harry repeats out loud.

"Could you be more useful?" Draco spats and resumes to stare intensely at the page.

"Bite me," Harry throws in response and spins.

He hasn't even started to go through his kitchen cabinets when Draco storms through the door of his apartment.

"Potter, come on, I was kidding. I will apologize if you want me to," he says with an edge of desperation in his voice.

Harry looks at him and laughs.

"I was just getting some tea, but it's nice that you care."

"I despise you," the blond man states harshly.

-

When Harry returns on Thursday, the Parlour is almost completely refurnished. There are two armchairs in front of the big fireplace. Draco's sitting in one of them, his face buried in yet another catalogue. Harry glances at the low table in the middle.  
The feeling that awakens in him when he recognizes the tea mugs on top of it is new.  
They are his.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry has no idea why his sixty square metre apartment has become a changing room for four people.  
He was sitting peacefully by the window of his living room, glancing down at the street and thinking about all those Christmas gifts he still has to buy, when Pansy interrupted his calm with three loud bangs on the door.  
Now he's holding what must be his robe for the evening while he tries to avoid her four levitating and disorientated suitcases.  
Pansy throws her cloak on his couch and her belongings drop one beside another on the wooden floor.

"Why are you here four hours before the dinner?" Harry asks, because it's still his house.

Pansy glances at him.

"Preparations take time, Potter. And stop fussing with that robe, it's been washed and pressed and I won't iron it again for you."

"Why do you have it?"

"Draco's asked me to take your measurements and to take care of the rest," she says like it's obvious.

"When, on Merlin's beard, have you measured me up?" he asks with slight preoccupation.

"A couple of weeks ago in your office, when you were busy doing whatever our Saviour usually does," she responds dismissively, already opening the first of her suitcases.

Harry wants to say something, but he's interrupted by the doorbell.  
Only one of his friends civilly announces her arrival.

"Hi, Hermione," he greets her, and he sees that she's come with Ron, who gives him an apologetic smile.  
Well, at least he's not the only one profoundly confused by the situation anymore.

"Sorry mate, but dad's at home with the kids. Mom's forbidden everyone to come to the Burrow, 'cause she and Ginny are decorating... and stuff," he says, shrugging. Harry shrugs back, but he likes Molly's Christmas, so he guesses he can suffer a bit for the greater good.

"Harry, do you mind if I put these in your bedroom?" Hermione asks him from above three large packages.

"Go ahead, ‘Mione," he responds, summoning two beers and a glass of whiskey. Ron and Pansy silently accept.

That's how he finds himself with Pansy and Hermione occupying his bathroom and their clothes occupying his bedroom and half of his living room.  
When he asks Ron why he thinks women need six dresses if they're still going to only put on one, Ron gulps down his beer and summons Harry's chessboard.  
Harry never wins, but it's a good practice for when he plays with Draco. He usually loses against him as well, but that's okay. When Draco wins, he always smiles.

-

Harry's in the bathroom with Hermione. She's pulling back the hair that falls on his forehead with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion when Draco arrives.

"Are we late?" he asks and Hermione casts a  _Tempus_.

"We still have two or three minutes left," she says, and she leans forward, glancing briefly in the mirror.  
"Don't worry, he won't be able to take his eyes off of you."

Harry doesn't hide his confusion, but he feels Hermione's mouth curve against his ear.

He stills when he hears a sharp voice coming from behind him.  
“Who is _he_?"

Hermione straights her back and gives Draco her brightest smile.  
"Oh, nobody, I was just reminding Harry of something."

Harry turns around and lifts himself from a summoned stool, trying not to sigh.  
He doesn't let his eyes linger on Draco's long, lean thighs. He looks more beautiful than ever, but Harry will have a whole evening to furtively absorb all the details.

Draco looks nervous.  
"Are you done? I can't be late because you've started to get ready only thirty minutes ago."

Harry swallows.

"How did you know?" he asks sheepishly, and Draco gives him such an exasperated look that Harry can only smile.

"Move your lazy asses, the dinner starts in twenty minutes!" Pansy shouts from the door and Draco skittishly readjusts his perfectly straight bow tie. Harry wants to tell him that everything will be impeccable because he knows that Draco doesn't settle for less than ideal, but sometimes words are superfluous.  
Passing Draco in the doorway, he lightly touches his right forearm (never the left one) and goes to the door.

Ron takes Hermione's small hand in his and they disappear from the corridor.  
Pansy looks directly into Harry's eyes and he knows he should understand something she wants to tell him, but he doesn't. She _Disapparates_ before he can ask.  
He hears Draco's quiet steps behind him.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks and Harry turns, his hand going instinctively to his hair. He stops himself just as his fingertips brush the first strands.

"Ehm, I might've forgotten where the event actually is...,"

Draco arches his brow.  
"Forgotten? Or rather _haven't even read the invitation_?"

Harry chuckles.  
"You know me too well for my own good," he says, shaking his head and lifting his arm for Draco to take, so they can go.

Draco's middle finger caresses his forehead instead.  
"Only you can dishevel hair after that much Sleakeazy," he murmurs as he puts the lock that escaped the others back in place.  
His hand moves from beside Harry's scar to his outstretched arm and Harry can't stop thinking that he's never been touched like this. Like he's something fragile.

-

Harry has never been good with words, but he thinks that no term could describe the Dinner Hall without belittling its overwhelming beauty.  
His eyes follow the tips of richly decorated Christmas trees that extend to a ceiling that's not there, because a sky peppered with stars is in its place. Harry can't stop himself from smiling at the memory of the same charm in the Great Hall.  
Snow falls down towards the floor, but when Harry puts his hand in the air, the snowflakes simply pass through it.  
He sees Hermione, who's in front of him with Ron, and when she turns around, the awe on her face mirrors Harry's own. Her long, silver necklace diverts the attention from the daring cleavage of her red dress with its vivid sparkle in the golden light. Harry glances up again and sees that it comes from many lazily floating, bright spheres.

The ballroom is still void. It's surrounded by round tables full of silver porcelain and flowers, but the main attraction is, undoubtedly, the fountain at its center. Harry has to make a few steps forwards to finally understand what fills it, because it surely is not water.  
His eyes widen at the sight of the same pearly liquid that he usually sees in Dumbledore's Pensieve.  
He turns around and looks at Draco questioningly. The blond man reaches him by the fountain and grasps its marble edge. His hair is untied tonight, and he looks more gentle than ever.

"Touch it"

Harry does.  
He's suddenly overwhelmed by a swarm of memories that tenderly caress his own. He sees countless faces of laughing children and a drove of unicorns that gallop through an endless field. He sees a big, wooden cottage filled with chattering house elves and a classroom full of people of various ages who cheer because everyone managed to levitate a feather.  
There is still so much more, but Harry slowly pulls his fingertips from the fountain and looks at Draco. He's breathless.

"These are the memories of all those who have realized their dreams thanks to the Amelia Bones Charity Dinner," Draco says softly and looks up, tugging some of the hair behind his left ear.  
"Children have found new families and magical creatures have been given back what had been theirs in the first place."

"You've done this," is the only thing that Harry manages to say, for once not bothering to hold back the emotions that Draco awakens in him.

Draco holds his gaze and Harry thinks that his cheeks darken, but it's difficult to say, because the fountain makes everything silver.

"I'm only one of many, Harry."

Harry's heart and mind respond tacitly in unison.  
' _You are mistaken, Draco. You are the only one_.’

-

When all the guests take their places by the tables, Harry realizes that he's expected to give a speech.  
When the blond man announces his presence as the Guest of Honor from a small stage, Harry looks at him in panic.  
His nerves don't vanish even when Hermione squeezes his forearm and murmurs, 'you got this,' or when Draco follows him with his unblinking, grey eyes as he makes his way to the stage.  
He casts a  _Sonorous_  and clears his voice.  
All eyes are on him and he hates it, but then he sees the fountain and the children and the house elves and he breaths in,

 

"I'm glad that I can be here with you, tonight. I apologize in advance, since giving speeches is not a strong quality of mine," he starts, and a few chuckles echo through the hall. "But that apparently hasn't stopped Draco from calling me on stage," he adds, glancing back at his friend, and a few more smiles appear on the faces of the guests. Harry can do it. He faces the Hall once again.

  
He tells them about the childhood that he's never talked about. He talks about all those times he's had to grit his teeth and keep his head down, passing through the living room of his old house. He admits that he's gone to sleep with his eyes full of tears more times that he can recall, drying them up only to sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night, hoping that some of the leftovers from dinner haven't been thrown into the garbage bin.

  
Harry doesn't want their pity or attention. God knows he's had enough of it at Hogwarts and after.  
He just wants them to understand that he's been given a chance before his life had gotten beyond the point of return. He's tasted hope. He's dived right into it and he's been gifted with the best years of his life. He understands the meaning of friendship and freedom, of knowledge and loyalty, and he's done it all because some people have given him their trust.

  
"It takes little to change somebody's world," he tells them. "Sometimes it's just a few words, like ' _You_   _are_   _a_   _wizard_ ,  _Harry,_ ' but there's got to be someone to say them. This someone is me and you, and all those who have the will to help."

  
He had thought the same when he was young and blindly brave, and when Dumbledore had been right and Voldemort wrong. He had thought it when his world was black and white, and he thinks it now that all he can see is grey.   
He glances at all those faces whose names he doesn't know,  
"If we try hard enough, we can bring hope. It's up to us to make it to the end of the road. I can only thank you, because by being here tonight you've already made the first steps."  
When he finishes, most of the people applaud; some of them are standing and others are looking at him with unreadable expressions.  
Harry doesn't care. The most important thing is, as Draco's said, that they spend their money, regardless of the force that drives them to do it. He's not the voice of their morality.

"You were incredible, Harry!" Hermione hugs him tightly when he gets off the stage and Harry can hear her sniffle.  
He chuckles and hugs her back.  
He can't see Draco anywhere, but he's probably busy entertaining the guests. He's the important person, tonight.

"Truly heartbreaking," Pansy says dispassionately, "now can we consume some alcohol?"

Harry smiles.  
"We have to numb our existential pain, somehow," he responds. Pansy reciprocates his smile, which doesn't happen often, and goes to their table.  
Ron's there, trying to swallow a big mouthful of mixed appetizers. When he sees Harry approaching, he tries to chew faster, but in the end he surrenders and gives him a thumbs up. Harry laughs and steals a piece of cheese from his plate.

"Four Firewhiskeys!" Pansy says clearly from her seat and smirks with satisfaction when the drinks appear right in front of her.

"Shouldn't we start with something less strong?" Hermione asks uncertainly. Pansy diverts her eyes from the alcohol to her.

"Speeches have been spoken. The only things we have to do now are eat, drink, find me a man, and spend our money."

Harry lifts his glass. He can drink to that.

-

After dinner is eaten, the tables move to the edges of the hall and soft music starts to play from the air.  
Harry is pleasantly warmed by the food and the alcohol. There are many people he recognizes. The heads of all the Ministry Departments are here as well as Harry's various Auror colleagues. He entertains a brief chat with Seamus and he smiles brightly at Dean, whose marvelous paintings are put on tonight's auction. He doesn't even feel the light envy that usually blackens his heart when he sees them holding hands or exchanging mouth-to-ear conversations.  
He cheers with Neville, who drinks a furiously green shot, takes a deep breath, and then goes to Hannah. Harry sees them slowly spinning on the dance floor a moment later.  
George is here, and he winks at Harry when he shows him all the fireworks that will be set out at midnight.  
He shares a drink with Blaise, asking him playfully where he's left his wife. Blaise makes a surrendered expression that switches to a breathtaking grin when he tells Harry that there's no escape from Molly's Christmas preparations.

-

"Harry! It's wonderful to see you here. You look truly handsome," Luna taps his shoulder and looks at him dreamily.  
She's dressed in yellow and Harry recalls the dress from Bill and Fleur's wedding.

"You are dashing as well, Luna," he smiles fondly and kisses her hand.

"Come and dance with me. The last time I danced to this song, I didn’t have a partner," she says with nostalgia, taking his hand. Her necklace jingles as she moves.

Harry clears his throat and tries to extract his hand from hers,  
"Luna, you know I can't dance."

She looks at him and her blue eyes crinkle at the corners.  
"Neither can I, but it's not important."

They dance, and their moves are far from the practiced choreographies of the Pureblood guests, but Harry can't stop smiling.  
He dances with Hermione and then with George, and he laughs when the guests distance themselves from them.  
At some point, Pansy snatches him from beside Ron and guides him firmly through the steps of a Waltz. She looks beautiful, just like Hermione; only colder.

Harry kisses her hand as well when the song ends.  
He wants to see Draco.

-

There is a balcony, hidden behind some of the Christmas trees. Harry finds Draco there, with his face turned up towards the dark sky and with a glass of wine in one hand.  
He passes a group of men smoking pipes and he nods politely back when they bow their heads at him.  
Draco jumps a little when Harry leans on the balustrade beside him and their shoulders brush.

"It's you," he says with relief.

"Were you expecting a more pleasant and acculturated company?" Harry asks with a smile.  
"I've learned some new terms recently, you know," he adds, elbowing Draco playfully in the ribs.

Draco smiles back at him.  
"Everything is better than the Pureblood pleasantries. Even your limited lingo."

"Hey!" Harry gasps in feigned outrage.  
"It's not fair to insult somebody with words he doesn't understand," he instructs Draco, who laughs briefly and looks at Harry.

"Please, excuse me. The next time I'll spell them out for you."

When they both look at the sky, Harry thinks that Draco has never been the Sun.  
Otherwise, Harry would've gotten hurt by looking at him too much. Yet, there's nothing he loves more.  
To him, Draco has always been the dusk and the Moon. It doesn't matter that he's not a source of light, because the one he reflects instead is much more beautiful.

Right now, though, Harry thinks that maybe Draco is not the Moon either. Maybe he's like the night sky. Wherever you look, there are stars and galaxies and even if you move your eyes across the infinite expanse, its wonders do not end.

"Do you remember how it all started?" Draco asks him, sipping from his glass.

It takes Harry a moment to understand what his friend is talking about, but then it clicks.

"It took me four months to get you to play chess against me, and the game lasted only fifteen minutes because you destroyed me," he responds, chuckling.

"And you still came, and played, and lost every week," Draco says, shaking his head.

"Somebody told me that I have a martyr complex," Harry shrugs and Draco doesn't even have to say Pansy's name. "Do you remember what happened later?"

"Merlin, I spent the next year doing the most humiliating jobs at the Ministry before they put me in Potions," he sighs. "The only highlight of my days had been that disgusting tea you insisted on bringing from your department."

Harry turns towards him and looks at the shadows that Draco's eyelashes cast on his cheeks.

"You're complaining now, but that one day I hadn’t gone, I found you in my office, accusing me of lying to you," he says, trying to contain the fondness.

Draco glances at him, then, and there's a light scowl on his irresistible face.

"That's because you  _have_  lied to me. You've promised that you would come every day, and promises are made to be kept, Potter."

"I didn't know you were such a romantic, Draco," Harry says and laughs when Draco misses him with a Stinging Hex.

"Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut."

They stay in a companionable silence for a little while and Harry has to ask for a repeat when Draco brushes his shoulder with his fingertips and says, ' _Thank you._ '

He looks at the blond man with bewilderment,  
"There is nothing you have to thank me for, Draco."

Draco looks briefly at the stone floor and then back at Harry.

"You spoke about chances and hope. My chance has been you, Harry; every time you came and put your trust in me.”

Draco's eyes are dark in the endless night and the lines of his face are hard. He's breathtaking.

Harry blames the alcohol when he takes him in his arms and presses him tightly against his chest.  
He can't cry, not right now, but he's almost there.

"There is nothing you have to thank me for," he repeats quietly, and closes his eyes when Draco's arms tentatively tighten around him.

The closeness lasts only for a moment, but Harry already knows that he'll dream about Draco's cheek on his shoulder and his warm breath on his neck.

"Now, there's a party we must attend and there is more meaningless small to be had before the auction," he says lightly as he lets Draco go, ignoring the longing in his chest. There is desperation on Draco’s face for a moment before it fades into his usual, blank mask.

-

Harry is too busy thinking about what happened on the balcony, and playing Exploding Snap with an extremely wealthy woman called Callisto, to notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass' dance.

-

At the end of the evening, the sum that they manage to fundraise is exorbitant.  
Harry waits for Draco, who's the last one to leave.  
He sees the blink of the camera's flashes near the exit and he's glad that, for once, the Daily Prophet will put light on an important thing.

-

"Tomorrow I'm going to cook Molly's stew. I have a free afternoon," Harry says conversationally as he stretches his arms above his head. His words hide an invitation; the dish is Draco's favorite.

The Manor's entrance doors open to let them in, but Draco doesn't motion for them to close behind them.  
Harry steals a glance at the blond man, who has been unusually silent since they've left the party.  
Draco is by his side, as firm and proud as ever, but his mouth is a tight line and his gaze is empty.

"Is everything okay?" Harry asks carefully, flinching at the reverberation of his voice on the walls.

Draco rolls his broad shoulders and speaks so quietly that Harry almost misses the phrase,  
"Astoria has invited me to dinner."

Harry's stomach drops to the ground. His mind is less sharp than usual, but he remembers, at last. Astoria Greengrass, the bride Lucius and Narcissa have chosen for Draco all those years ago. Harry had completely forgotten. 

"W-well, that's good," he responds, cursing himself for the stutter. He should be happy that she's captured Draco's attention after fifteen, god-damned years, just when Harry learnt how to live with his unrequited feelings without it hurting so bad. He's a fool.  
"She seems like a fine woman."

The silence stretches out and Harry thinks that he might not get a response, but they both remain in the corridor, Draco facing its end and Harry facing him.

When Draco finally turns his head, the tips of Harry's fingers burn from the cold.

"She does," he says as quietly as before, but there's something in his tone that tells Harry it's time to go.

"Have a good night, Draco," he says, and the casual tone of his voice is unexpected.  He almost doesn't see the lines around Draco's mouth deepen.

"You too, Harry," the blond man responds, turning around, and his silhouette soon becomes one with the darkness at the end of the corridor.

Harry's chest is as empty as the entrance hall, now.  
Just like Draco's steps echo on the walls, his name echoes in Harry's ribcage and in his mind.  
The sorrow that he's always hidden from himself blinds his thoughts, because Harry just wants to be loved.  
He's never asked for anything, because he's always been the one to give. He has given away his childhood, his innocence, his hate and his love, until there's been nothing left, so he's started to give pieces of himself, until he's given his life too.  
But now, in the screaming sadness of his mind, as dim as the light of the torches on the marble floor, he wants. He wants so badly his body burns and his heart cries, and he has to hold himself up because if he doesn't, his knees will give out.  
He doesn't need to be Draco's everything, because he's not even whole anymore, but can't Draco just please,  _please_  love him back?

"You are pathetic, and so is this meaningless infatuation of yours."

Harry punches the wall beside Severus' portrait. Tears have fallen on his glasses, but he can't find the motivation to dry them. What's the point, if more will fall?

He leans on the wall and his shoulder touches the frame of the painting.  
He's tired. He doesn't reach for his wand as the words slip off of his tongue,

  
" _Expecto Patronum._ "

Two more tears wet his cheeks and they glimmer in the white light of a Dragon.

"How long?" Snape whispers.

Harry turns his head to look at Snape's pale face and he wonders why he suddenly wants to laugh.

"Seven years."

-

Harry goes home, and so does the sorrow.  
He's not worried about tomorrow; he will be fine in the morning.  
He knows the process by heart.  
It's like gluing together the same, shattered and worn pieces of clay for a hundredth time, because they keep breaking apart. By now, he can blindly map out all the dents and the cracks.  
On evenings like these, however, he wonders if someday these stupid, stubborn pieces will stop sticking together and he'll just remain broken.

__________________•___________________

  
Harry spends the next morning in Robards' conference room, amongst other tired and mildly bored Aurors.  
It's procedure to discuss all the closed, ongoing and unresolved cases before the end of the year. It might not seem so, but the Auror Department is methodically organized under all the flying memos, scattered maps, and highly dangerous artifacts.  
When the afternoon approaches, Harry thinks he's still going to cook today. He might even prepare a bigger portion, because there are too many hungry people out there, on the margins of the streets.  
He nods distractedly from his desk when Pansy announces her leave.  
His hands go through the papers. There was this file that he needed to sign, and he  _swears_  it was under the yellow folder just two days ago and it's a shame he doesn't exactly recall how it looks, because he could just  _Accio_  it...

"Are you looking for this?"

Harry sighs and closes his eyes.  
When he reopens them, he wonders if he'll ever look at Draco's features without feeling like he's been awakened from a dream he hasn't know he's been in.

"How did you know?" he asks, and he takes the sheet of paper from Draco's fingers.

"I didn't. It was on the floor, and so were these," Draco says, levitating a whole stack of documents to Harry's desk.  
They look like those super important reports he is supposed to submit by the end of the week.

"Shit," he groans, and he starts to go through the pages. If something is lost, he's  _so_  screwed.

Draco chuckles.  
"You're always the same, Potter. Does keeping order physically pain you?"

Harry huffs with irritation under his breath.  
Where is the god-damned ninth of December?  
"Aren't you supposed to be preparing for your appointment?" he spits, and he soon regrets his harshness, but he's been so good at not thinking about Astoria Greengrass and now his efforts have gone to hell.

He sighs with relief when he finally sees a small '09.12' in the corner of one of the pages. It takes him a moment to realize that Draco hasn't responded.  
He diverts his gaze from the desk, his eyebrow already curling with unspoken question, but his face drops when he meets Draco's eyes.  
They are the saddest Harry has ever seen them.

"Has something happened?" he asks quietly and, when the man doesn't respond again, Harry thinks that maybe Draco doesn't want him to know. It's not like he owes Harry an explanation, after all.  
Silence stretches out and when he starts to lift himself up, so Draco can leave, the man speaks and his words are like stabs straight into Harry's chest.

"Could you love someone and stay by that person's side for the rest of your life if you knew that you'd never be loved back?"

Harry's mouth goes dry and his mind goes blank, and he panics because for a moment he can't feel anything.

Yes, he could.

He grounds himself in Draco's pained irises and the words reverberate in his brain. Then, excruciatingly slowly, his chest fills with anger.  
Anger, because all Harry's ever wanted was for Draco to love him and this woman has the nerve to reject Draco's love like it means nothing.  
His hands almost shake at his sides.

"If she can't love you for who you are, then she doesn't deserve you," Harry says, his voice low.  
Draco chuckles and Harry is completely lost.

"It's not her, Harry," he says bitterly, looking down and shaking his head. "It's me," he whispers, and his silver eyes look directly into Harry's soul. "I could never love her back, because there is no more love left in me to give."

And to this Harry has really got no response.  
He closes his parted lips and swallows as Draco sighs and smiles. "Is the stew offer still valid?"

This situation is one of the strangest that have ever happened to Harry, but he's never really been fond of normal.

"Yes, but this time you're going to actually help me, you lazy sod," he smiles back.

-

The flames flicker under the pot and Harry turns around, because it's time to add the potatoes.

"Are you done with the cutt-" he starts but doesn't finish, because Draco's face is mere inches from his own.  
If he could, he would stop time and count his long eyelashes. His lower back hits the counter and Harry doesn't know that if he looked hard enough, he’d see a handful of pale freckles on the bridge of Draco's nose.

"Talking about these?" the man asks with self-satisfaction and makes the potatoes swirl in the air. Harry glances above Draco's shoulder. He's cut every vegetable Harry's taken out of his canteen.

"I didn't know you could cook," Harry says slowly, thanking Merlin that Draco has moved a bit to the left.

"If I'd told you, you would've asked for my help every time," Draco responds, looking at Harry and smirking. What a smug bastard.  
When the blond makes the potatoes flow into the pot with a concentrated look on his face, Harry can't help but say,

"It's a good thing I like you, Malfoy, otherwise you'd be out of here."

"Your threats do not affect me, Potter. You should've learned that by now," Draco responds and Harry can see that he's smiling.

"Are you sure? Do you remember that time I charmed your hair red and gold because you intentionally broke my favorite vase?" Harry says with amusement and laughs when Draco scowls.

"That vase was the most hideous object I've ever seen in my life, Potter, and that's thirty-two long years," Draco spits back, waving a wooden spoon at Harry. "And there was no need to keep my hair like that for a week!"

Harry makes a step forward.  
"I might not remember exactly how the dialogue went, but I'm fairly certain it was something like ' _I will charm your damn hair red for a week, Malfoy_ ' and  _'I bet you couldn't even if you tried_ , Potter'," he says, imitating Draco's haughty tone.

Draco stops stirring and laughs, and Harry's heart skips two beats.

"That hadn’t been my finest bet," he chuckles and turns around. "Can we add the carrots, now?"

-

They sit down to eat by the fireplace, even if they usually always eat by the kitchen table.  
And as Harry tastes the flavors that are a bit different than usual because Draco cooked with him, he looks at the other man and says,

"I could, you know?"

Draco lifts his eyes from his plate and looks at Harry with perplexity.

"I could love without being loved back," he smiles a bit, because he has done it for years.

Draco's eyes widen and move from his in an instant.  
The other man fixes his gaze on the burning logs and Harry furrows his brows at the unexpected reaction.

-

He has long resumed to eat his portion, when two words reach him from Draco's armchair.

"Me too."


	5. Chapter 5

Harry glances around nervously.  
Diagon Alley is its usual bustle, now more crowded and more festive. He knows that Draco's in France visiting his mother, but the Wizarding World is unpredictable, and he has a Christmas gift to buy.  
He sighs in relief when he spots Ron's bright, red hair among the crowd.  
He waves briefly, because his friend seems to be busy murmuring some likely unpleasant words about the two wizards who've stopped right in the middle of the street to chatter, blocking the way.

About ten years ago, in an unexpected burst of male independency, they had decided to secretly meet before Christmas every year in order to buy gifts. Harry was sure that Hermione has always known exactly where they were and what they were doing and was just too kind to call them out on it.

To be honest, he and Ron are perfectly aware of the fact that they hadn’t been born with a natural talent for shopping (nor are they saddened by it), but they've silently agreed that it's better to share the misery with another person, since it's not like they can just not buy anything (damn the social pressure).  
Everything gets even more complicated when one's better half has a particularly difficult taste, like Hermione. Or Draco, for that matter.

Harry smiles brightly when Ron greets him with a hug; it could've been a slap on the shoulder. Small mercies.  
"Do we have a plan?" he asks and laughs when Ron gives him a knowing look, "I see. It's the same as always," he says, rolling his shoulders in anticipation.  
Ron laughs back and pushes his fringe out of his eyes.

"Yeah, it's the same," he responds and pats his pockets, probably to check if he’s forgotten his money. "We enter every shop in the damn Alley and stare at the shelves until enlightenment comes."

Harry grins again and looks to his left.  
Wiseacre's it is.

-

He had forgotten that Diagon Alley had become much longer since the War, and apparently since last year as well. In fact, the slight enthusiasm he had felt in the morning had left him the exact moment he realized he had started to sweat, and that had been only twenty minutes after he and Ron began their search. He had also been forced to shrink his numerous bags, because he accidentally hit three people in the span of ten meters, trying to levitate them through the crowd.

It's almost three in the afternoon and Harry is irritated, probably dehydrated and starving, because, even after all those years, he still lives under the illusion that the Christmas shopping can be wrapped up in a couple of hours. And he doesn't have a present for Draco, because nothing is good enough.  
He's waiting for Ron outside a shop he has never seen before and he almost bends his knees in relief when Ron comes out with a small package, waving it over his head and looking victorious.  
"Please remind my why am I doing this" he says when he reaches Harry and dries the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.

"With marriage and fatherhood comes great responsibility," Harry responds, nodding sagely.

Ron gives him a flat, unimpressed stare.

"If it makes you feel better, I don't have anything for Draco."

"Drinks. Now."

"Merlin, yes," Harry groans and lets Ron grab him by the elbow.

"The Three Broomsticks?" his friend asks, superfluously, because the afterparty's location is a tradition as well.

"I gotta stop by the Hog's Head," Harry says hurriedly and smiles to himself.

"That old man is completely bonkers," Ron murmurs and touches the side of his head in a subconscious gesture. At Harry's questioning glance, he grimaces and explains,

  
"Last time I went to his pub, he was trying to fit some boxes on one of those dusty shelves," he says and Harry nods. He's not sure when the Inn had been opened, but he could bet a pile of galleons that it hasn't been cleaned ever since. "It wasn't going well, so I asked him if he needed some help, because, you know, he's not in his prime…," Ron continues animatedly and Harry hums in agreement, already imagining Aberforth's undignified face, "... and he grabbed a bottle from the counter and hit me in the head! Then he just threw me out!"

Harry barks out a laugh.  
"That sounds exactly like Aberforth. And that's why he has no idea I'm coming," he says, chuckling, and they spin.

-

Albus' brother is, unsurprisingly, not impressed by Harry's sudden visit, nor is he moved by the fact that Ron has stubbornly insisted on waiting outside.

Now he's pointedly ignoring Harry's attempt at small talk, but it takes a lot more than a couple of venomous glares to discourage him. Especially when Aberforth's eyes look so much like Albus'.

Harry chatters happily for the next five minutes, just until Aberforth's hostility becomes almost palpable. He emphasizes that Harry has to ' _get out of here, 'cause I have clients to serve_ ' (the Inn is painstakingly void, but Harry doesn't say anything, because the old man is armed with a broom), so Harry leaves a colorful package on the verge of the countertop, where it seems to be just a bit cleaner than in the middle.

"You can bring me all of Gringott's gold, for all I care. I'm not giving you anything back," he spats from above the handle of the broom.

"Merry Christmas, Aberforth" Harry replies, going for the door.  
  
He doesn't say he's already received enough, because if he did, he'd have to point out that the old man is wearing the socks Harry had gotten him last year.  
Neither would he say that he knows that Aberforth cares, because Harry still has one part of Sirius' mirror, and sometimes it becomes blue for a moment, just like when he was seventeen. The only difference is hidden in the greater depth of the crinkles at the corner of Aberforth's eye, and Harry thinks that there had to be a time when he laughed a lot.  
He would also have to say that Aberforth should be glad, because, at last, there is one thing that distinguishes him from Albus.  
His older brother has always been impassive, unreadable. Aberforth, on the other hand, had stood unmoving for thirty seconds when Harry visited him for the first time, after the War. The day has been bright, and the light from the dirty window had underlined the switch from incredulity to wonder on his old face, as if he couldn't believe that somebody had come to him.  
Maybe not everybody would have caught it, but Harry did, because he felt the same when Ron, Fred, and George came to Privet Drive.

Harry would have to say many other, complicated things, but, paradoxically, with Aberforth Dumbledore everything has always been simple. That's why he tilts his head one last time and leaves, quietly closing the door behind him.  
In the meantime, Ron has drawn an incredibly ugly portrait of the man in the dirt that covers the window.

-

"I wouldn't have expected to see you two in here," Minerva McGonagall says, looking at Harry and Ron with something dangerously close to fondness.

They are sitting in the corner of the Inn that's quite fully packed, even if it's the middle of the week.

Harry stands up, followed by Ron, and kisses the Headmistress' hand.  
  
"Minerva, it's wonderful to see you," he says, but it's still strange to call her by her first name. He respects her too much. And he may fear her a little, but he puts the blame on all those Transfiguration lessons.

"Yes, truly wonderful," Ron adds, bowing his head.

Harry motions to their small table.  
"May I get you something to drink?" he asks politely, but Ron grabs his forearm and glances at the bar. Madame Rosmerta is there, as always.

"Don't worry, I'll go. The next round is on me," he says quickly and Harry chuckles.  
" _Any woman would want to look like that at her age,_ " Ron spats almost too quietly to hear, but the tips of his ears become red.

Professor McGonagall regards him briefly, but she's probably witnessed too many strange behaviors to give a damn.  
"Gillyweed, thank you," she says succinctly and sits down, taking off her hat. Harry doesn't get to take her garments and hang them, because she looks at him sternly and does it herself. Truly frightening, that woman. Harry loves her to bits.  
  
"I may have to ask you to stop flying with young Mr. Lupin," she says when Ron comes back, but there's a small smile ghosting her thin lips.

"He's good, isn't he?" Harry asks and smiles proudly.

"He is, but I have already lost the Cup a couple of times, and I won't have it taken away this year," Minerva responds and takes a sip of her drink. Gillyweed is strong, but she doesn't even flinch.  
"It looks quite gracious inside the cabinet I bought last month. It would be a shame to ruin the decorum of my office," she says and Harry doesn't know if she's joking or menacing, so he takes a gulp of his butterbeer.

The time passes quickly, because Minerva always has prime quality gossip that usually gets revealed after the second round of drinks.

"Speaking of decorum...," she says at some point, and Harry needs a couple of seconds to grasp the logical thread of the conversation, "... Professor Snape has mentioned something about renovations in Wiltshire."

Damn. Even Minerva knows.

"Yes, Draco's basically made me do all the lifting, because he's been too busy choosing the paint," he sighs and remembers that he still doesn't have a gift.  
Then, Ron's unnatural ability to read minds awakens.

"Hey, mate, why don't you get him something for the house?" he asks, swinging his arm and spilling some of his Firewhiskey.  
"I mean, I'm sure it's all gloomy and Slytherin...," he sends an apologetic glance to Minerva, "... and if it were me, I'd buy him an embalmed Mrs. Norris, but I'm sure you'll figure something out," he adds, not really helpfully, although the idea is not bad itself. Harry swears he hears Minerva snort, but when he turns his head, the Headmistress’ eyes are sharp as always.

"It's been quite some time since you've paid a visit to Grimmauld Place," she says, and the candle light flickers in her glasses, "I'll make sure that Mr. Weasley gets home safely and with all his belongings."  
When Harry doesn't move, because he's sure that she knows something he doesn't understand yet, Minerva arches her brow and presses her lips into a thin line.  
Finally, something clicks in his mind and he stands up and kisses her cheek goodbye, but only because they've both had a few drinks. He pats Ron on the shoulder, throws too many coins on the countertop, and goes out.  
The evening is harsh in its coldness, and Harry knows exactly what to give Draco.  
He's sure that the armchair he brought to his flat wasn't the only one that had been standing in that ugly room, but at that time he hadn't needed two.

-

Harry comes back to his apartment, only to find Draco tentatively poking the electronic intercom by the main entrance; the neighborhood is Muggle, after all. His feet are surrounded by bags and Harry cannot stop himself from casting a Disillusionment Charm. He circles Draco and stops right behind his back. It's difficult not to laugh, because it seems that Draco not only can't make the intercom work, but he's also insulting it angrily under his breath.  
Harry leans forward; Draco's cologne lingers lightly at the tip of his tongue and then at the back of his throat.

"Boo," he whispers, and Draco jumps a little and elbows him hard, right in the stomach.  
The Disillusionment Charm vanishes simultaneous with Harry's breath. He coughs, keeping his stomach with one hand and drying his eyes with the other. He would've never said that so much crude force could be contained in such a slender body.

No. Now that he thinks of it, Draco's broken his nose with one kick.

"You idiot!" Draco hisses, passing him an expensively looking, embroidered handkerchief. "I'm not going to apologize for hitting you, since it's all your fault" he says, but he helps Harry lift himself up nonetheless.

"It's good to see you too, Malfoy," Harry breaths out, stretching his abdomen. He's had worse.  
"How's your Mother? Weren't you supposed to come back tomorrow?" he asks, looking for an explanation in the set of Draco's mouth, but his friend looks just as put out as always.

"I was, but Mother Dear had forgotten to inform me that our lunch included the Greengrass family right next to the entrecote," Draco responds as they climb the stairs.  
The building is old and it doesn't have an elevator, but it's got only three floors; Harry lives on the second.  
Harry grimaces in sympathy, even if, deep down, he's cheering.

"I imagine it didn't go very well," he says, opening the door to his apartment and helping Draco with the bags. He cannot stop himself from peeking into them. They're full of fancy food and alcohol, undoubtedly French. Draco is the best.

"It has been difficult to convince Mrs. Greengrass that the Blishwick family is a fair substitute for the Malfoys, but I've managed," the blond says dismissively and smacks Harry on the hand that had made its way into one of the bags.  
"Not everything is for you, you caveman," he sighs and pushes Harry out of the way gently. He unpacks everything and aligns the products on the countertop, and Harry immediately recognizes a small, purple box.

"You brought me those dusty, round chocolates!" he exclaims happily and snatches the box from under Draco's hand. Draco makes an aborted sound.

"Dusty chocolates... These are truffles, Potter, you sod!" he says with outrage.

"Yes, yes, those," Harry responds, placing the box on the table by the fireplace and casting a Cooling Charm. "You didn't have to," he adds, only to tease Draco a bit. He's missed him.

The blond huffs and looks back at the groceries.  
"I happened to pass by the place. Now, do you want to cook something while I drink my Sauvignon, or not?"

Harry rolls his eyes behind Draco's back. It's impossible that he ' _happened to pass_ ' by a place that's eleven kilometers from his Mother's house, but instead of speaking, he opens the fridge and grabs the beef he had bought yesterday.  
Draco deserves something good, tonight.

__________________•___________________  
  
It's the twenty first of December and Harry stands beside Draco on King's Cross' platform. Teddy is coming home today.  
Harry smiles when the red locomotive emerges from the dense steam.  
The platform is full of wizards and witches and Harry watches as a little boy jumps high at the sight of his sister, whose smiling face sticks out of the window of the first compartment.

Teddy is easy to spot amongst the students with his bright, blue hair. He's grown a bit during the last three months. He'll be taller than Harry in a couple of years.

"They grow up so fast," Draco sighs beside him.

"We sound so old," Harry teases.

Draco huffs, “Speak for yourself."

They approach the boy, who's talking animatedly to his friend, Jean, unaware of the surroundings.  
Harry catches a piece of the conversation.

"... Can you please ask your mum, Jean? I have to buy the right present, last year I didn’t get her anything! Merlin, why are girls so complicated?" he groans and tugs at his hair, which turns crimson.

Harry grins and opens his lips to speak. He hasn't teased Teddy in ages.  
The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a hiss, because Draco steps on his foot.

"Do you remember the feeling when Severus' discovered you had the hots for the Chang girl?" He murmurs dangerously, and Harry scowls. Draco kills all the fun.

Teddy finally sees them and smiles fiercely.  
"Uncle Harry! Uncle Draco!" he shouts and shoots a last, meaningful look at his friend before he starts to run. The impact of his lean, uncoordinated body forces Harry to take a step back, but he hugs Teddy with enthusiasm. Draco's hand grips Harry's shoulder when Teddy pulls the blond man into the embrace as well.

"I have so much to tell you! And Gran's said that I can spend the night at your place, Uncle Harry!" he says as soon as he disentangles himself from Harry's and Draco's arms.

Draco glances at Teddy with such fondness that Harry has to look away.  
"I hope you'll be able to spare some time to decorate a couple of Christmas trees."

Teddy looks at Draco with round eyes.  
"You both waited for me to decorate the trees? You guys are the best!" He shouts and hugs them again.  
Harry is truly happy that Teddy is not like other angry and angsty teenagers.

He smiles playfully.  
"It's good that I bought some hot chocolate, since you're staying."

"And it's incredibly fortunate that yesterday I polished three of my brooms. Potter doesn't stand a chance," Draco adds and tilts his head conspiratorially.

"Yeah!" Teddy cries out and his hair turns blue again. Then, he looks at them with confusion.  
"I can't understand why you still call each other by your last names," he says, shaking his colorful head.

Draco glances at Harry.  
"Well, I don't want Potter to think that I like him, beside simply tolerating his presence."

Harry charms Draco’s eyebrows black, grabs Teddy's forearm and disappears before he can face the consequences.

-

They go flying at the Manor, before it gets dark. Teddy looks at the rooms he's never seen with wonder, exclaiming 'cool!' and throwing some other, new-generation words – that Harry fails to understand – when something catches his attention.  
At some point he drops an object and it breaks, and Harry watches with amusement as his godson frantically tries to cast a  _Reparo_  while looking around to see if Draco had returned with the brooms and the equipment.

Snape's sudden and silent appearance doesn't even startle him.  
He glares at his old Professor with resentment,  
"You told Draco about Cho."

Snape looks away from the panicked Teddy and clicks his tongue,  
"Your suffering brightens my days."

"This should brighten them well enough, then," Harry says and takes out his wand. A blindingly pink Christmas tree appears in the background of Severus' portrait.

Instead of paying attention to Snape's furious commands to _make it vanish, right now_ , he takes mercy on Teddy and repairs the old Greyhound statue.

-

Harry and Teddy stand by the vast grounds of Wiltshire, panting and waiting for Draco to catch the bludgers so they can go home.  
The blond man is still not talking to Harry because of the eyebrow incident.

"Uncle Harry, why don't you tell Uncle Draco that you like him?" Teddy's curious voice breaks the silence.

Harry turns his head so quickly that his neck snaps,  
"What?!" He exclaims, and he's glad that Draco is hundreds of feet away.

Teddy looks at him knowingly and smirks,  
"I’ve bet five galleons on you getting together before New Year's Eve and I can't lose. Uncle George will never let me live that down."  
He's apparently picked up some of the Malfoys' attitude while Harry wasn't watching.

He makes Teddy turn upside down with a silent  _Levicorpus_  to re-establish the proper hierarchy. The boy yelps in surprise, then starts laughing and swinging in the air.

"Where is your discipline, young man?" Harry spats and tries really hard to maintain a stern face.

Teddy spins around to look at him,  
"Now you sound like Grandma," he says and barks out another laugh when Harry groans.

He casts a  _Liberacorpus_  before Draco gets down and starts asking questions. Teddy brushes the snow out of his hair and leans towards Harry,

"Don't worry, Uncle Harry. I don't mind that you love Uncle Draco."

Harry smiles and leans forward in response,

"And don't worry, Teddy, I don't mind that you love Victoire."

The violent blush on Teddy's cheeks is a fair payback.

-

Draco forgives him only when Harry concedes him half of his hot chocolate. They are all gathered around the old television, Teddy already in his pajamas and Harry in his favorite, brown sweatshirt.  
Draco's platinum hair reflects the glimmering lights of the Christmas tree that his he and his godson had decorated with meticulousness while Harry was ordering the food.  
Harry chuckles when he catches the blond's concentrated expression as he tries to understand, for a hundredth time and not quite subtly, how muggles films work.  
Teddy hums contentedly around his sixth slice of take-away pizza.  
At some point, Draco's head slides down on Harry's shoulder. He is fast asleep, and he smells of soap and winter, but Harry doesn't have the heart to wake him up. Not yet.  
He rolls his eyes when Teddy wiggles his eyebrows at him from the armchair, but in the end he gives in and smiles, just a bit.

-

Draco wakes up when Harry gently shakes his shoulder. The film finished some time ago.  
Harry breaths out a quiet laugh when Draco removes his hand and mumbles to be left alone.  
If only Harry could fall asleep beside him, not only tonight, but for the rest of his life.  
It's a shame he always put the others first.

"Draco, you have work tomorrow," he says as gently as he can and he slowly retracts his shoulder from under Draco's head.

The blond man grunts in response.  
"Kill me and hide my body, so that nobody can find me."

"If I do it now, you’ll be remembered as a man who was killed by an ex-Gryffindor with an ugly sweatshirt," Harry murmurs back, smiling when Draco recognizes the words as his own and lifts himself up. He looks at Teddy, who's sleeping on the armchair with his mouth open, and glances at Harry.  
The edges of his face are softened by the sleep.  
"Can you imagine such a disgrace?" he says quietly, looking truly frightened for a moment.

"I would even charm your eyebrows black again to make everything more terrible," Harry responds and lifts himself from the couch as well.

He accompanies Draco to the door and watches as the blond charms his outerwear to put itself on.

"I'll see you after Christmas?" he asks, because they always spend this festivity apart.

Draco looks at him from above the scarf that Harry recognizes as his own.  
"It's cold," the blond justifies himself and turns around, "and I might see you earlier. Weasley's invited me to the Burrow’s Christmas Eve dinner" he says and takes the first step forwards to spin and Apparate.

"Which Weasley?" Harry asks rapidly.

Draco pauses halfway and glances over his shoulder.  
"Ron," he answers and disappears with a crack.

As Harry carefully levitates Teddy to his bedroom, he's not sure if he should be grateful or angry at Ron, but he can't ignore the happiness that lights his thoughts when he imagines Draco sitting beside him at the Burrow, wearing one of Molly's sweaters.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry arrives at the Burrow in the morning. It's Christmas Eve and the house looks astonishing amongst the sea of white. Molly and Ginny have outdone themselves; even the gnomes that run around Arthur's black wellington boots have tiny Christmas hats on their potato-shaped heads.

Harry's brought his mother's hand-written recipe book, because they will all be baking chocolate chip cookies.  
He can already feel the dough in his hair.

He brought all the Christmas gifts as well. They're poorly wrapped, but he's never been good at these things. Nobody minds, anyway. There's Rose's tiny broom, Hugo's big, stuffed dragon and a stack of Newt Scamander's notes that Luna managed to get from her fiancé for Charlie. Harry had gotten Hermione a self-translating quill for when she'll become the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and those tickets they had talked about at Wizard Wheezes for Ron. Molly will get a brand-new set of pots, because she's complained about hers getting too thin on the bottom from all the cooking, and Harry knows that Arthur will be delighted to try out the portable computer. He and Draco bought Teddy the new Nimbus, because he managed to get at least an Exceeds Expectations in every subject.  
These and other boxes are squished in Harry's bag, and he wonders if Draco will like his gift.

"Harry, darling, it's so good to see you!" Molly hugs him so tightly that for a moment he can't breathe. He leans down and hugs her back, hiding his face in her hair. It's as red as it is silver, now.

"I-it's good to see you too, Molly..." he says, even if there's no air left in his lungs.

Molly breaks the embrace and glances at him with critical eyes, patting down the wrinkles on his coat.

"It's good that I've cooked so much. Don't they feed you at the Ministry? Hermione's gotten so thin, lately," she huffs worriedly.

Harry laughs.  
"They do, but nothing can compare to your food, Molly."

The woman blushes and waves her hand,  
"You're always such a charmer, Harry! It's a wonder you still haven't found someone," she says and looks at him pointedly.

Harry is saved by Arthur.

"Molly, leave the boy alone. You'll have plenty of time to investigate on his love life later," the man says, placing a hand on Molly's shoulder with kindness and gripping Harry's hand in a bone-breaking handshake.  
"The others are in the village, waiting for Bill and Charlie to arrive with the international Portkeys," he explains when Harry glances at the almost empty hanger near the doorway.

"Uncle Harry, can we make the cookies now?! We've been waiting for you!" Teddy shouts from somewhere in the kitchen as Harry enters the Burrow, taking his cloak off. He kisses Andromeda's cheeks and gives Teddy, Rose, and Hugo an assessing look.  
Then, his expression shifts to a big grin.

"Who wants to break the eggshells?"

The only response he gets is a collective shout, even from Hugo, who probably doesn't understand but who wants to participate nonetheless.

-

Harry is a lucky man.  
The cookies have been baked and he's almost managed to avoid Hugo's sticky hands in his hair.  
Bill, Fleur, Victoire, and Charlie have arrived, and the table has been set. Harry doesn't know how they've managed to squeeze seventeen different chairs around the long, wooden table, given that a fair amount of eggnog has been consumed in the meantime.  
The days are short. Dawn comes early, and with it comes a knock on the front door.

"Harry, darling, would you mind opening the door?" Molly asks, her hair wild from the heat of the burners.

"Yes, Harry darling, go and open the door," Ron says teasingly and Harry throws him a suspicious glare.

When he opens it, he's met by Draco’s granite eyes. There's snow in his hair and on the bridge of his nose and Harry is, indeed, a lucky man.

"It must be pleasant to look at my magnificent beauty, but can you help me with these?" The blond man shivers and motions to the countless packages that float behind his back.  
Harry is grateful that his cheeks are already pink from the alcohol.  
As he takes over all the perfectly enveloped presents, Draco sighs, looks at him again and strokes the corner of Harry's mouth.  
His thumb almost brushes his lips.

"You could've cleaned yourself up for Christmas Eve, at least."

Harry finds the words even if his brain is highly uncooperative,  
"I want to see you making cookies with Hugo," he grunts.

He doesn't know that Molly has witnessed the exchange.

"Draco, dear, come in and have something warm to drink," she says in a motherly tone and fusses around the blond man in her usual manner. Draco blushes and bows deeply, taking her hand and kissing it.

Molly had been the first to discover where Harry had been going every week, fifteen years ago.  
She had stopped him once, in the Burrow's garden, and she said only ' _Azkaban_ '.  
When Harry's said ' _yes_ ', the lines of her round face hardened, and she disappeared inside the house. She had re-emerged with three green sweaters that she placed in Harry's arms. Then, she started to cook for the both of them, stopping only when Draco had been released.  
At that point, she began inviting him home.

Draco hadn't come until some years later, because he needed some time to be able to face her when she'd done so much and he'd done so little.  
When he had finally Apparated to the Burrow with Harry, Molly sat him down at the kitchen table, commented on his ' _terribly thin frame_ ' and fetched him some of her stew, just as if Draco had always been there.  
When he offered her payment for everything she had done, she smacked him on the head with her wooden spoon, her eyes full of tears.

-

"George, I swear that it you hang that mistletoe on my earring again, I will make it my New Year's resolution to stick it permanently to your -" Harry says with exasperation from the living room floor just as George hides the mistletoe behind his back and grins.

"Harry, it's Christmas time!" he cries out with fake indignation. "We wouldn't want you to get vulgar, would we?"

Harry glares at him.

"I think it makes you look hilarious," Ginny adds as she stretches out on the couch, smacking Blaise accidentally on the cheek.

"Are you enjoying your nine months of abstinence, Gin?" Harry says back and Ginny groans loudly, swinging her glass of water at him. He vanishes the liquid before it wets everything.

Blaise hits him with a  _Rictusempra_.  
"Don't make a pregnant woman angry, Potter," he says and then he murmurs, "You know how she can get," theatrically putting his hand beside his mouth.  


He laughs when Ginny turns around and smacks him again. Harry knows. He still remembers some of her Bat Boogey Hexes.

He looks at Ginny and at her round belly. Blaise's big, dark hand covers it protectively as he tries to get his wife's long, red hair out of his mouth.  
He's glad that they hadn’t gotten back together, after the war. He couldn't make her happy the way Blaise does.

"It's not fair that you use your pregnancy as an excuse every time," Ron takes a sip of his beer.

"How about you push a human being out of your body, Ron?" Hermione says from beside Harry.

"Heh, I love you," Ron answers quickly and stuffs a big piece of pie in his mouth.

Harry chuckles and glances at Draco, who is sitting with Rose on his knees.  
She's giggling and making grabby hands at the swarm of small, origami swans that Draco's charmed to float around her head.

Draco catches him looking at them and it's too late for Harry to hide the affection in his eyes.  
His chest warms when Draco smiles at him without a word.

-

Once the kids have gone to sleep, Harry and George pepper the living room with mistletoes and whistle when Victoire finally rolls her eyes and gives Teddy a peck on the lips. He flees out of the room with pink hair and Draco sighs at Harry before he goes after him.

When Molly and Fleur put Celestina's _Greatest Hits_ on, Arthur seizes the opportunity and sits beside Harry in a not very casual way.  
"Ehm, Harry, do you remember when you told me about your feletision?"

"Television," Harry corrects him.

"Yes, yes, the television" he says huskily and glances around. Molly had gotten furious when he brought home an old, very loud washing machine.  
"Can you tell me how you made it work with all the magic in your apartment?"

-

Last Christmas he taught Bill and Charlie how to play muggle poker and now he curses himself, because he's already lost half of his spare change.  
Draco joins them, and his hand accidentally closes on Harry's when he steals some of Harry's pumpkin pie.

Harry loses the next game, too, and he tells himself that it's because Draco's poker face has no equals.  
  
-

"Harry, dear, I've prepared Percy's room for you," Molly whispers, putting her hand on his shoulder because the living room is full of sleeping people.  
Ron has dozed off on George's shoulder after his twelfth slice of pie. Teddy's fallen asleep on the carpet after an animated conversation about job prospects with Bill and Charlie, and Victoire is tucked between the cushions of the nearby sofa. Her face is turned towards Teddy and Harry smiles. Ginny is being carried by Blaise, who moves with such grace that his wife doesn't even stir in her sleep. He whispers something to Molly and Harry sees her looking fondly at her daughter. She pats Blaise on the forearm and murmurs,  
  
"Go home."  
  
Zabini kisses her cheek, nods at Harry and aims for the door. He puts Ginny down on her feet and holds her while she sleepily puts her coat on.

Draco's still awake, and so is Hermione. They're sitting by the fireplace, both reading. The light of the flames dances on Hermione's hair as she subconsciously nods her head at some words written in the book. It shines on Draco as well, but it's still, because the blond is an emotionless reader. Only his eyes betray him, moving quickly and intensively through the text. Harry wonders how he'd feel if Draco looked at him as often as he looks at Draco.

He glances up from his chair by the kitchen table.  
"Thank you, Molly. You didn't have to trouble yourself."

"Oh, nonsense!" she whispers back and summons what looks like clothes.  
"These are yours," she murmurs, placing Harry's old pair of pajamas in his lap. "And these are for Draco," she puts another set, green, on top of Harry's. "I hope that the pants are long enough, but I didn't get the chance to measure him," she says worryingly, and Harry looks at the green fabric with shock. When he lifts his eyes, the same bewilderment is written on Draco's face, who's apparently heard the exchange.  
  
Molly's gaze sweeps between the two of them.  
"You didn't think I'd let Draco travel home after all this alcohol, did you?" she whispers slowly, narrowing her eyes. Harry suddenly remembers that this is the woman Fred and George were afraid of.

"Of course not," he and Draco whisper in unison.

The blond man is too busy staring uncertainly at the pajamas in Harry's hands, but Harry isn't distracted enough to miss the rapid exchange of looks between a smiling Hermione and Molly.

-

Percy's room had been cleaned out of all parchments, the documents, and the books to make space for two beds that've been placed by the opposite walls. Harry is standing in the doorway; he can hear Draco climbing the stairs to the upper floor.  
He can do this, he tells himself. ' _It'll only be one night, and it's not like we haven't slept in the same space_ '.  
Harry groans inwardly when his unhelpful mind reminds him that, when Draco slept in Harry's bed, they had been divided by a wall.  
He enters the room before Draco reaches him and he tries to banish the questions that swarm his mind. Does Draco sleep on his back? Or maybe he sleeps on his side, with a hand under his cheek? Does he face the wall? Or perhaps he faces the door, keeping his wand under his pillow to be ready to defend himself, just like Harry, because they both haven't forgotten the war?

"... Potter."  
Draco's voice startles Harry. He's sitting on the bed, even if he doesn't remember doing that; it happens, sometimes, when his mind overcomes reality. He looks up and his mouth goes dry. Right. They're sleeping in the same room.

"What?" he croaks.

"My pajamas," Draco says, outstretching his arm. He had apparently unbuttoned the upper part of his shirt at some point of the evening.

"Right," Harry responds quickly, taking his eyes off of Draco and picking up the blond's pajamas.

Draco goes to the bathroom first, and Harry doesn't mind.

-

"Potter, are you sleeping?" Draco whispers from his bed and Harry's stomach flips.

They had both gone to bed soon after their bedtime routines, turning off the lights and drawing the curtains of the small window, even if the moonlight is too strong to be held completely back.

Of course he's not sleeping.

"No," he murmurs in reply, barely holding back the lame ' _and you?_ '. He's not at his finest when he's under pressure – sue him.

"It's Christmas," the blond breaths out.

Harry turns his head. His eyes have already adjusted to the darkness, so he can see Draco's outline, lying on his back and looking at the ceiling.

"It is," he responds, not knowing what else to say.

A minute passes. Harry can hear Draco's quiet breaths.

"I have a present for you," his friend says, and the springs of the mattress crackle as he lifts himself and sits.

Harry turns towards him again and props his head on his hand, lifting himself a bit as well.  
He doesn't know what this is all about, so he says,  
"So do I."  
It's not a lie. The armchair rests in the pocket of his jeans, separated from the other gifts that he's left downstairs.

His heart skips a beat when Draco stands up. He sees him going to the door, where his clothes are hung on an old peg. It's too dark to see much else, but after a moment Draco turns and, instead of going back to his bed, he sits at the end of Harry's.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he whispers, and when Harry reaches for the package with trembling hands, his fingers accidentally touch Draco's.  
The little box is heavy.  
Harry places it carefully on the bedside table and sits down. He puts his glasses on and Draco's face becomes almost crystal clear in the shadows of the room.

" _Accio_  Draco's gift," he murmurs and catches the present; the blond man takes it from him a moment later. Harry remembers that he's always been impatient when it came to gifts.  
"Merry Christmas, Draco."

They sit, facing each other.

"You first," Draco says.

There's no point in arguing, so Harry takes off the ornamental paper and lifts the lid of the velvet box. He has to pry open the curtains a bit, because the light is too weak, and it seems somehow wrong to cast a _Lumos_.

He angles the content of the box and squints his eyes.

 _I open at the close_.

His breath dies in his throat and panic crushes his chest. It takes him too long to realize that the ring inside the Snitch is not Marvolo's.

"I asked Firenze to find it," Draco whispers, and Harry looks up at the nervousness in his voice, forcing his mind to just  _focus_.  
  
"I-I asked him to hide that, so that nobody will be able to use it anymore... And he has," he continues, looking right into Harry's eyes. "He hid it, because he's known for a long time that I'd come, and then he left the snitch behind," he says and breaths out a short laugh. His eyes never leave Harry's.

Harry looks at the box in his hand, and then back at Draco.

"I know that the ring's allowed you to see those who you hold dear..." he whispers, "...and that it's permitted you to reach out for help when you've needed it the most," he adds, breaking the eye contact for the first time.

The silence creeps into the room, but Harry has a feeling that Draco is not done.

In fact, the blond man looks back at him, after a bit.

"I realize that it might be presumptuous of me, but the ring I've put inside the Snitch will summon me to wherever you are, as long as you'll want or need my help. Put it on, and I'll come."

Harry is speechless.

 _I open at the close_.

He remembers his parents and Sirius. He recalls the shock he felt when Remus had appeared beside them, summoned by the Resurrection Stone, because he was supposed to be  _alive_ , god damn it, instead of leaving Teddy behind for the greater good, and for Harry.

He remembers that, if it hadn’t been for them, he wouldn't have made it.

He touches lightly the little, silver ring inside his old, gold Snitch.  
This is the proof that Draco cares about him.  
He opens his mouth and then closes it. He's lost.

Draco probably takes his silence as discontentment, because he starts to explain himself,  
"I'm sorry, I should've known that I'm no substitute for your family and your friends," he says and something in his voice breaks as reaches for the Snitch. "I will get you something else, Potter, I'm sor-"

"I'm not silent because I don't like it, Draco," Harry says gently. The fact that his back faces the window permits him to look at Draco's lovely face without restrains, even if it hurts a little.  
"It's because I don't know how to thank you... And because my gift is not as nice," he adds after a heartbeat and chuckles.

Draco leans back and tears the wrapping of Harry's gift.  
"I'll judge that, if you don't mind."  
He carefully lifts the shrunk armchair with his fingers and places it on the palm of his hand.  


" _Finite,_ " he whispers, and the armchair spins in the air and regains its old size, slowly falling to the ground.  
"It's the same as the one I have in my apartment. I thought it wouldn't look bad by your new fireplace," he explains, but he's painfully aware that his gift cannot be compared to Draco's.

Draco looks at the armchair like he's making sure that it's exactly identical to Harry's.  
"Thank you," he says almost inaudibly. He leans towards Harry, but then he leans back again and presses his hands to his face.  
Harry thinks he hears a sniff, but Draco is on his feet in a blink, so he must've imagined it. He crosses the room and gets into his bed, pulling the covers around him and turning around to face the wall.  
"Goodnight," he whispers.

Harry tries to hide his confusion as he responds,  
"Goodnight, Draco."  
He takes the Snitch with both hands and closes it.

When Draco's breath becomes rhythmic, he presses his lips to the cold metal and glances at the ring one last time.


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

Harry's Christmas break finishes too soon, as always.  
Christmas morning comes and goes peacefully, and Draco doesn't mention the Snitch anymore, so Harry puts it in the old pouch Hagrid had given him at Hogwarts, right by his heart.

He spends the next five days in his office, finally progressing with the smuggling case, because some of the jewelry samples he sent to the Analytical Unit have come back, complete with positive results.  
The only highlight of the week is Draco, who drags him out for a walk on the third day, and Harry knows, as soon as he sees him, that there's something going on.

Draco speaks only when Harry's inquisitive looks become so frequent that his forehead hurts from all that brow lifting.

"I would like to invite everybody to the Manor for New Year's Eve," the blond says thoughtfully, tightening his coat around him, because the wind seems to be rising. "Do you think they'd come?" he asks, and Harry knows he's worried, because he tugs at the fabric a bit too much.

"Of course they would," Harry responds enthusiastically and traces the blond man's fingers with his eyes.  
Draco is a proud man, but he still hasn't grown out of needing reassurance; he tried so desperately to gain it when he was younger that maybe it's become a permanent part of him.  
"But that means that you'll have something like twenty people to feed, so you better start cooking early," he adds seriously.

Draco furrows his brows. Uncertainty has always made him look much younger.

"I'm sure that Deemey can manage such an amount of cooking," he says, more to himself than to Harry, rubbing his chin. His index finger rests on his lower lip long enough for Harry to notice. He's lucky that Draco's eyes are lowered.  
"I could always ask Pansy's house elf if she can help... She and Deemey have some sort of..." he murmurs, gesticulating vaguely with his ungloved hands, and then snorts. "Even my house elf has a better love life than me," he says, but there's no bitterness in his voice, only melancholy.

Harry wants to retort that he has been in unrequited love with his best friend for seven years and he couldn't love anybody else even if he tried.  
Thus, he's doomed to be forever alone. That is a bad love life.

"I'm afraid it's a Weasleys' tradition to purchase and prepare everything personally," Harry says.  
It obviously is not, but Draco will need something to occupy his mind with. He'd never openly show his worry about everything going well, but Harry would see it in the hue of the bags under his eyes and in the absent aspect of his irises.

"What do you mean, personally?" Draco asks with incredulity.

Harry smiles playfully.  
"I mean that you'll have to do the groceries and then actually cook."

Draco seemingly tries to process the situation, and then his eyes widen in understanding.

"Potter -" he says and then stops, glancing somewhere to the left and tapping his foot on the stone sidewalk.

"Yes, Malfoy?" Harry asks when Draco opens his lips and closes them again.

The blond man looks at him sharply and huffs with irritation.  
"I've never acquired the groceries by myself," he states, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "In the Wizarding World, we charter others to bother about such mundane things."

Harry snorts. Draco's pride had been subdued by his sentence, after the War, but his skittishness about admitting his weaknesses hasn't changed a bit.

His Proteus galleon vibrates briefly and sinks lower in his breast pocket.

"Meet me by the Borough High Street at 9AM on New Year's Eve," he says, taking the coin out and reading the brief message on its edge. It's time to head back.  
Before he turns, however, he casts a last glance at Draco.  
"It would make my year to see you all by yourself in a muggle marketplace, but I'm afraid you'd stand out too much and put the Statute of Secrecy under a heavy risk," he says, because a day without teasing Draco is a wasted one, and he makes sure to empathize his point by looking at Draco's clothing.

Draco breaths heavily out his nose.  
"This-" he says, pointing at his perfectly cut, albeit not very muggle-looking coat, "-is called 'basic understanding of aestheticism', Potter. And I could mingle perfectly among the Muggles, if I wanted to," he adds, lifting his chin.  
It's good to see emotions on his face. Harry hates the fact that it’s been frequently wiped blank by Voldemort and Azkaban.

He lifts his eyebrow.

"I’ll bet a dinner on that," he challenges and puts out his hand.

Draco narrows his eyes and holds Harry's gaze. His hair is tied, so it doesn't cover their silver, even in all this wind.

"You should book a table at The Ledbury right away, then. They have quite a long waiting list," he says, gripping Harry's hand with firmness.  
He's always liked Draco's handshakes. Unwavering and concise.

-

He receives the formal invite the day after.  
He snorts when he reads that he's allowed to bring a plus one.

-

Draco wins the bet, at last.  
They meet at the Market on the New Year's Eve and Harry has to look twice, because Draco looks just... Muggle. He's got a simple, black coat, a pair of jeans, and some winter boots, and if people look at him, it's only because he's just as handsome as ever.

When he asks him ' _How?_ ', Draco smirks and admits that he's recently had tea with Hermione. When Harry calls him a cheater, he points out that they've never established rules against seeking help.  
When Harry scowls and stays quiet, because the git is right, Draco's laugh is genuine and so is the touch of his hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry soon discovers that Hermione taught him everything about Muggle money as well, so he doesn't need to worry. Instead, he shows Draco how to bargain for the best prices.

-

As soon as they arrive at the Manor, Draco transfigures his clothes back into his usual robes.

"Merlin, that has to be the most hideous thing I've ever worn" he sighs with slight disgust.

"You're as charming as always," Harry responds, because he's wearing a black coat and a pair of jeans as well.

Draco gives him an exasperated look.

"You've always been a lost cause, Harry."

Harry rolls his eyes and levitates the groceries towards the kitchen.  
When he enters the ex-Parlour, he casts a glance at the fireplace. It looks like Draco's already used the armchair, Harry thinks to himself and smiles, because there's a rumpled plaid thrown over its backrest.

-

"You should add thyme first, you fool."

Harry swears loudly, because he's sure that Snape wants to see him having a heart attack.  
He looks up. Snape's unpleasant face and greasy hair are right in front of him, hung on the tiles of the kitchen wall.  
Now that he's experienced it, he thinks that he's never wanted to see his Potions Professor from this close.

"You're dead and you just want to ruin the dinner," he says and goes back to chopping the rosemary.

"You wouldn't know it, given your pitiful academic performance, but potion-making and cooking are closely related," Snape snarls and Harry sighs and looks back up.  
The man in the painting smirks,  
"Are you afraid of listening to your superior, Potter?" he asks pretentiously, and Harry already knows that he will regret his temperament, but he just can't  _not_  throw the thyme into the pot when he's been directly challenged.

Draco sighs in defeat somewhere to his left.

The worst thing is that, when he tastes the sauce later that day, it's the best he's ever prepared and he Vanishes Snape's portrait before he gives in and punches a hole through the canvas, right where his infuriating smirk is. Draco would probably be angry at him if he did it.

-

The guests start arriving in the early evening.  
Hermione comes first, as always, and Harry ignores her curious look when she gathers that he and Draco have been alone until now.  
Ron and George barge in right after the Wheezes' closing time, carrying bags with glass bottles (likely alcohol) and some sweets from Honeydukes.  
The rest of the Weasley family soon follows, and it takes Harry a couple of seconds to evaluate the quantity of food that Molly's brought. He catches Draco's eyes from across the living room and they wave their wands to enlarge the kitchen table at the same time.  
Teddy comes as well, because Andromeda had been invited to France. Narcissa has tried for a long time to regain her sister's trust.  
When Blaise and Ginny arrive, Zabini explains that his wife has categorically refused to remain at home; he also tells Harry that his left buttock will hurt for a couple of days because of Ginny's hex, when he's merely suggested that she's not as vigorous as she used to be before the pregnancy. They shake their heads at the bossy women.

Pansy comes and kicks Harry on the shin in greeting.  
When he asks her  _what_   _the_   _fuck_  in between the jumps on the unharmed leg, she informs him that she didn't appreciate his Christmas gift.  
Harry had gotten her a ticket to Magical Speed Dating.  
Draco and Greg laugh loudly behind his back. Fantastic; a Slytherin coalition.  
He retreats honorably to Ron and Hermione.

-

New Year's Eve passes just like Christmas Eve. The only difference is that it's silver, like the Manor, when Christmas Eve had been all gold.

Thanks to Charlie, the Weasley brothers retrieve an old stack of cards from a box that looks suspiciously like a part of an animal. Draco doesn't seem to remember owning such object.  
When they ask him to join them, he politely declines, because, to play, one has to put their entire hand inside the box to grab the card.  
Harry laughs around his glass of gin.

He drinks and talks and smiles, but his eyes always divert to Draco, in the end.  
Right now, he's sitting by the fireplace and talking to Arthur about his experience at the Borough. His shoulders shake in silent amusement when Arthur starts to recount something in turn.

Harry has always liked the quietness about Draco. He's grown up around loud people, just like Dudley and the Gryffindors.  
No, he thinks. Maybe it's wrong to attribute the noise only to them.  
Maybe the loudness is a prerogative of all the youth, but that's not correct either, because the Death Eaters had been loud as well, just like the walls of Hogwarts when they fell to the ground.  
Everything had been loud, at some point. Even Draco.  
But he is silent and reliable, right now, and that's one of the things Harry loves about him.  
  
-  
  
There is a moment during the evening when his feelings become too much.  
Maybe it's when Arthur and Molly start to dance in the crowded living room, where there was only darkness two weeks ago, or when Ginny puts the palm of Harry's hand on her stomach and he feels the baby moving.  
Or perhaps it's when Teddy snores loudly on Draco's thighs and he presses his face onto Draco's left forearm to make himself more comfortable.  
And when Harry realizes that all the Weasley brothers are talking about Fred, he excuses himself and goes out.  
He has to breath.

 


	8. Chapter 8

At some point of the evening, Draco loses Harry from sight.  
He glances down at Teddy. His Dark Mark is not so cold with the boy's cheek on it, but it still doesn't lessen the shame and the guilt.  
Few things do.  
He carefully places Teddy's head on a cushion and stands up.

He knows that he'll find Harry. He always does. Finding him is like coming back home from a long journey; instinctive and awaited with anticipation.

Draco slips into the false indifference with ease. He's always been good at feigning.  
He had imitated his Father so well, back when he still looked up to the man.  
He'd feigned arrogance and high self-esteem when he'd put out his hand for Potter to shake.  
He'd faked malice and disdain when, for all those years, Potter's green eyes had looked out for everyone, but never for him.  
The hostility has become a permanent part of his behavior; it's been easier to understand the rancor than the jealousy that's nested in his heart when Harry had refused him.  
Draco's simulated the hate so well that at some point he began believing it to be true. He thought that if Potter hadn’t accepted him as a friend, he would've had to accept him as his greatest enemy.

He paid dearly for his stupidity when he accepted the Dark Mark.  
The Dark Lord has known no mercy.

Then, he's let down the only man who's managed to look past his bitterness, when even Draco hadn't been able to distinguish real from fake anymore. He killed Dumbledore and, with it, the only chance at redemption he's ever had. So, he's continued to feign, scared down to the marrow.

  
Potter has still come for him. He's come back to the flames of hell for  _Draco_. And Draco couldn't uphold the mask anymore.

He's faced the consequences of his actions with his head high and his heart full of sickening fear.  
It had been the first thing he'd done truly by himself. Or he would've had, if only Potter left him alone.  
That stubborn, stubborn boy just kept refusing to let him rot in the loneliness of his guilt and Draco hated Potter's pity even more than he hated his past indifference.  
It had taken him four months to see that those green eyes had been full of promise and hope and all the things Draco never had.  
When he understood that Harry  _finally_  looked out for  _him_ , he had selfishly taken everything Potter had to offer, even if he has never done anything to deserve it.

It had been Harry who saved him, in the end, by accepting everything Draco is and everything he is not.  
And when Draco realized that the anger, the hate and the jealousy had been love all along, he found his way home.  
Only then the pain had loosened its grip on his heart.

-

He finds Harry outside.  
He looks at his messy hair and his muscular back. He's dreamed about it so often.  
He's glad that Harry is not facing him. It's still difficult to look at his face, because Harry is just like the sun. He takes away some of the darkness that Draco carries along everywhere he goes.  
Loving him is as easy as breathing air, but nobody warned Draco that every inhale would hurt so bad.

Harry turns around, at last.

He smiles at Draco and his eyes crinkle at the corners.  
There's snow in his black hair and a small smudge of sauce still lingers on his cheek.

When Draco swallows the next mouthful of air, the pain in his chest is so big that he almost falls down to his knees. His eyes water and he just  _knows_ , with a certainty he hasn't felt before, that he won't be able to stand tall any longer.

He closes his eyes as he breaths out. He's not strong enough. Not anymore.

"I wish you'd love me back."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally made it, guys.  
> I've wanted to add the new parts for one month, now, but my university's kept me too busy.  
> In the meantime, I've reached more than 3000 hits and over 140 kudos.  
> What has surprised me the most, thought, is that, on top of everything else, I've received many kind and unexpected words, so thank You. I'm happy that my work has meant something to You.  
> I want to thank all those who have stayed with me, waiting for the update, and I want to thank all those who are reading this story for the first time.   
> -  
> And now, after almost five months, I want to thank [cmkhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmkhunter/pseuds/cmkhunter) again. This story is finally done and I couldn't be more proud of how it turned out to be.
> 
> B.

Harry must've misheard.  
He  _must've_ , because he can swear that when he turned around and smiled, Draco had come to him, as beautiful as ever, and said,

_I wish you'd love me back._

Now, there's this ringing in his ears that mutes every other noise.  
Draco is unmoving, his grey eyes shiny, and his breath escapes his pink mouth in white, irregular puffs.

Harry takes a step forward, while Draco's words resound in his mind like a prayer.

_I wish you'd love me back._

He has to repeat them again, and again, and again, because otherwise he'll stop believing that they've been truly spoken.

_I wish..._

He takes another step, slowly, because he's afraid that if he moves too quickly, Draco will disappear.

_You'd love me..._

Draco isn't looking at him, but what Harry is about to say is important.  
There's never been anything more important than this.  
His trembling hands reach for that pale face he loves so much, and Draco lifts his eyes.

_Back_.

"There's never been anybody I have loved more than I love you, Draco."

-

Draco is silent for so long that Harry's stomach turns into ice.  
God, he's imagined it all, hasn't he?  
Panic sticks to the walls of his throat, because his words cannot be taken back.

He holds his breath when Draco rests his forehead on Harry's and closes his eyes.

"Please, let it be real," he whispers, and it’s almost like he's talking to himself. Nonetheless, his words caress Harry's lips and Harry moves his hand to the center of Draco's chest. The other man's heart is beating as rapidly as Harry's own and Harry smiles.  
Dumbledore had been right all along. There's nothing more powerful than love. He doesn't even have to speak out loud to evoke his Patronus.  
He'll make Draco see that it's real.

When the brightness appears behind Harry's shoulders, Draco opens his eyes.

Wonder looks good on his handsome features, but what doesn't, in the end?

Draco's silver eyes finally divert from the Patronus to Harry.

Then, he kisses him. Just like that.

He kisses Harry softly and slowly, like he's savoring every brush of Harry's lips on his own; he kisses Harry like he's been waiting for this moment.

Harry's fingers move to Draco's hair as he kisses him back.  
Draco tastes of pie and wine and Harry knows that he'll never get enough of his sweet, sweet mouth.  
Blood rushes to his cheeks when Draco parts his lips further and breaths out hotly, taking Harry in.

When the Weasleys start to cheer from the porch, Harry blushes even harder.  
George and Ron scream, "Finally!" and Molly pats her cheeks with a handkerchief.  
When Harry looks at Hermione, she smiles and says:

"Just go."

Harry smiles back at her, takes Draco's left hand and spins.

 

-

 

They are going to make love in Harry's apartment and Harry doesn't know where to put his hands, because Draco's silk shirt is as smooth as his hair.  
It's a good thing that the blond man is lucid enough for both of them. He guides Harry's fingers along the buttons of his shirt with patience, kissing him every time Harry's hands quiver, and the silk soon slips on the floor.  
Draco inhales heavily when Harry traces the line of his pale stomach with his knuckles and his tongue is so pliant that Harry's head spins.  
He leans against the bedroom wall, grabbing Harry by the hips, and exhales loudly when Harry's thigh presses against his erection. His legs part, and he groans when Harry finally regains his consciousness and increases the friction.

Then, Harry's shirt goes down as well. His glasses bump on Draco's nose, but he won't take them off. He has to see everything, and Draco's face is a marvelous thing to look at, all flushed from the wine and the open-mouthed kisses.

Harry kisses his smooth jaw and his long neck, drinking in Draco's smell.  
He already knows it, because it's the same one he leaves in the crook of Harry's armchair every evening.

The thing that arouses Harry the most, however, is how Draco responds to his touch.  _He_  should be the one longing for it so badly, but it's Draco who takes everything.

They move to the bed when Draco's legs start to give out.  
The blond man unbuckles their belts and their pants, and Harry has never been more excited from simple undressing.  
Draco pushes Harry on the bed and kneels over him, naked and beautiful, lean and hard.

"I will make you feel so good, Harry..." he whispers and his lips brush Harry's. "Please, just let me take care of you."  
Harry can only nod, because he doesn't know how to speak anymore.  
Draco smiles and makes his way down. He presses his nose to Harry's groin and inhales deeply.  
"I've been waiting for so long..." he murmurs, and his breath is warm on Harry's hardness. After a moment, he takes Harry in his mouth and Harry lies his head down on the cushions. He wants to moan, to repeat Draco's name over and over, but he throws his arm over his face to prevent himself from falling apart.

Draco takes his wet mouth off of his erection and Harry looks down on him. He looks like pure sin.  
"Don't, Harry. I want to hear you, instead of imagining your voice in my dreams," he says lowly and Harry lets out a deep moan.  _God_ , Draco's been dreaming about this, about  _him_.  
Draco moves his head up and down, until Harry cannot keep quiet even if he tries to and until his long eyelashes stick together from the wetness of his eyes as he takes Harry in as deep as he can.

Harry has to put his hand in Draco's hair to stop him, he is too close, and he hasn't even touched Draco yet.

Draco's mouth is hot, and his lips and chin are wet, and Harry kisses him as he turns them over, so that Draco can rest in between his shaking legs.  
He places one hand on the nape of Draco's neck, while the other travels down to his lower abdomen. Draco lifts his hips and his legs press demandingly on the sides of Harry's knees, so he lifts himself, letting Draco spread them.  
Harry fixes his gaze on Draco's face, because there's too much to look at and Harry has to last a bit more.

"Harry,  _please,_ " Draco moans. "I've prepared myself so well for you," he says, putting his long shins around Harry's lower back and pulling him down. Their erections align; Draco's saliva makes them slide smoothly one over another.  
"Take me, Harry," he whispers harshly and moves his hips, and Harry's arm almost gives up under his weight at the sensation.  
"Take everything I can give you."

Harry's never dreamt about being on top, but he's prepared himself many times. His fingers move tentatively along Draco's navel and along his groin, and the sound that escapes Draco's lips when Harry touches his ass is unholy.  
Harry's hand tightens around Draco's nape as he slips the first finger in.

The blond man is more than Harry's ever dreamt of, with his breathless gasps, smooth skin, and hips that move with every thrust.  
Harry leans down and kisses Draco's closed eyelids. He kisses the soft skin on the sides of his nose, too, and he catches Draco's lips just as he speaks Harry's name.

Draco's cold fingers tighten around Harry's wrist; he moves Harry's hand from his nape to the base of his neck, where it meets his torso.  
He looks at Harry with eyes that are almost black.  
"Ground me, so I know it's real."

Harry groans, because Draco will be the death of him.

"Draco, please, let me-" he says, and his voice is completely broken. Draco pulls him closer and his lips caress his ear.

" _Take me_ , Harry."

-

He makes love to Draco on his bed. He thrusts deeply, because he knows that he won't last long, but he wants Draco to remember this night.  
He puts two fingers in Draco's mouth to wet them and then he takes the other man's erection in his hand.

Draco cries out Harry’s name as he comes. Harry follows him almost immediately, because Draco pries his eyes open and tells him he loves him, gripping him by the hips and making him thrust harder.

When Harry's head stops spinning, he leans down beside Draco and he looks at his pink cheeks and bedraggled hair.  
His chest feels full for the first time in fifteen years.

"Stay," he whispers.

And Draco stays.


End file.
